The White Room
by GloriousBlackout
Summary: In the midst of the Civil War, Bucky finds himself in the hands of the government and has to cling to his autonomy among those who would use him as a weapon. Meanwhile, Steve has to fight to save him before it's too late, while being brought face-to-face with the consequences of a war he doesn't wish to fight.
1. Bucky

**A/N - I consider this to take place shortly after the end-credits scene from Ant-Man. Any feedback is appreciated and I hope you enjoy!**

 _Disclaimer: Unfortunately I don't own Marvel. If I did there'd be a Black Widow movie._

* * *

Bucky should not have been surprised that he was in the midst of another war. It had been the one constant in what he knew of his existence; from the raining gunfire and trenches of his old life to the Winter Soldier's discreet political killings in the aftermath. While his memories existed merely as shattered fragments, he at least knew exactly how to fight, how to kill, how to die should he have to. The building tension of this so-called Civil War should have suited him better than trying to survive in peacetime ever could.

And yet, he had only ever been a pawn in those wars. A loyal soldier who had fought to the death and a weapon designed for more powerful men to aim and do their bidding. Perhaps that much was still true, but he could not ignore the uncomfortable fact that this war was being waged partly as a result of him.

Steve had tried to save him from that knowledge, he knew. The Captain and his partner had the good grace to treat him with more humanity than Bucky had seen in years, but that seemed to involve concealing information and hiding him away in an underground safehouse in a feeble attempt to keep him safe. Bucky would rather have the cold, hard truth and know exactly what the outside world knew about what he had done and why hiding away was such a necessity in the first place. He could have forgiven the secrecy, perhaps, if Steve were not suffocatingly protective; always insisting he eat and sleep and talk to Sam instead of doing something useful like he yearned to. Inactivity didn't suit him, which was why he'd struggled on the streets, and the lack of objective meant the stirring of memories in his mind that he'd rather not dwell on.

Sam was better. He had no protective instincts towards Bucky and, while he was kind, he also refused to shy away from what he had done in the past. If anything he encouraged Bucky to talk about it, like he'd realised that the building images of murder and orders and The Chair were turning him into a ticking time-bomb that needed to be diffused before he snapped and hurt everyone in their pitiful base. Sam didn't flinch on the occasions where his charge felt able to talk, no matter what horrors he heard, and he allowed Bucky to vent without being judged or pitied. Bucky was grateful for the man, although part of him still hated the fact that no matter how much he told the veteran, he was still unlikely to receive any outside information in return.

He knew the basics, he'd seen the headlines litter the streets when everything had started. He knew that Rumlow had killed civilians out in the open; that that occasion had only deepened the public's distrust after the catastrophic aftermath of Ultron's creation; that the government had suggested a registration act for anyone with superhuman abilities.

On the surface it almost sounded sensible and might even remove some carelessness from the actions of groups such as The Avengers. And yet Bucky could remember how men in power had treated him throughout his life; how his serum and metal arm had made him something to be feared and controlled. For every Tony Stark, whose actions were already so public the Act would have little effect, there would be people like him who'd been experimented on against their will and who would receive only malice and pain from being publicly outed.

Not that the anyone cared about them, however. The public wanted its scapegoats, the men in power wanted their mindless soldiers. Steve and Sam and the small, scattered gathering who agreed with them wanted the freedom to make their own choices. Apparently all were willing to fight and cause yet more damage for those beliefs, and all the while Bucky waited in an underground base wanting either to fight or to go to a home that no longer existed.

* * *

Steve returned after being absent for three days looking considerably more miserable than usual and sporting an impressive gash across his forehead. He threw a glance over to Bucky's corner – the area where he slept and generally existed these days as there was nowhere else for him to go – but quickly looked away as if the sight hurt him and wandered over to discuss something with Sam in a low voice. Bucky tried to ignore it as he wrote in the tattered journal Sam had given him, recording his most recent nightmare in an empty attempt to advance his recovery (it wasn't helping). His mind had tortured him enough with images of a smaller, more stubborn Steve being interwoven with a metal hand closing around a frightened victim's neck, and he did not need the outside world to torment him as well.

He was curious, however, and the sight of people talking as if he were not there was something he'd grown sick of long ago, so he shifted closer to the small dining area where his protecters stood, not caring if his movements were obvious.

It didn't work. The pair were being careful, their voices barely whispers, and all Bucky managed to catch was Sam's concern over the already healing wound on Steve's face and a brief mention of Stark before Steve noticed Bucky had moved and froze mid-sentence. He felt the rising urge to snap _'I'm not a child!'_ at the man but talking to Steve in any manner was difficult. The captain had a habit of letting his guard down around his old friend and letting his emotions show without meaning to; Bucky had realised that regardless of whether he sounded too much or too little like his past self, Steve would respond with expressions of hurt. Staying quiet would infuriate both parties but at least it wouldn't add more confusion to the mess that was his mind.

Sam seemed to have picked up on Steve's silence and turned to face Bucky himself, although at least he seemed unsurprised to see that he had moved. He shook his head in slight exasperation and muttered to Steve, "Look, you should tell him _something_ about this _._ You're driving him mad here."

Steve looked torn and as small as one designed specifically to be strength incarnate could look. He whispered something to Sam that sounded like "he told you that?" before sagging at the veteran's answering nod. Bucky wondered if Steve begrudged the fact that he spoke to Sam far more easily than someone who had once been his best friend, but the super-soldier was too good a man to bring that up if it were the case.

Instead Steve wandered over to the small living space in the centre of the room and collapsed into one of the three armchairs, rubbing his tired eyes while Bucky wandered over to a chair of his own. "There's been some developments with the government. They say they're willing to relax the conditions of the SRA slightly to allow more flexibility for those opposed to it."

Bucky knew that wasn't everything. Nothing that made Steve return looking exhausted and like he'd been in an intense bar-fight could ever be that favourable. Even with his memories of their lives together being scattered and confused at best, he knew that on instinct; it was the same instinct that had changed his mission objectives from 'destroy' to 'protect' two long years ago.

Steve took a breath and looked at Bucky with an expression that was almost fury. "But they're demanding we hand you over as a token of our support. They want you to be some mascot they can parade around as a symbol of the Act. They say it's either that or they demand a trial."

Despite Steve's obvious anger, Bucky found that he wasn't surprised by the proposal. People wanting to use him was nothing new and it made sense that some penance for his actions as the Winter Soldier should be expected. He was too dangerous to be left dormant; either he fought on their side or they assumed he was making an enemy of them and demanded he be brought to justice. Not that he particularly appreciated either of those options.

"What would they want of me?" Bucky asked, in spite of himself. If Steve was surprised at him speaking up he didn't show it, too wrapped up in his own musings.

"I don't know. Even Stark was vague on that front," Steve admitted, almost mournfully. Sam had told him once that 'Stark' and Steve had been friends and that neither particularly wanted to be at odds with each other, although circumstance demanded it. "I can't bring myself to trust them though. Not with you. I'm sorry Buck, but it'd be better to hide for now until we figure something out."

Bucky simply nodded in silent agreement and picked at a tuft of fabric on his chair. He despised hiding and a small, dangerous part of him was itching to fight. But in a choice between hiding away with people who seemed to have his best interests at heart and being in the hands of people with power similar to those who had hurt him in the past, the choice was simple.

A few moments of silence followed, in which Steve seemed to be considering something while Sam, stuck for something to do, set about making coffee in the small kitchen space. Bucky would have been content to sit there thinking of nothing but he perked up at what sounded like a distant thud beyond the door. It was so faint that he assumed he must have imagined it, until he realised that Sam too had stopped what he was doing and was sending careful glances at the thick metal door to their base. Bucky knew from the time he'd arrived here that outside there was only a long, cramped stairway that ended underneath the basement of what appeared to the outside world to be a run-down clothes shop. Nobody should be outside, unless...

"Steve?" Sam whispered as loudly as he dared, leading the captain to acknowledge the tension in the room as well. "You didn't notice anyone tailing you on the way here, did you?"

Steve shook his head but rose anyway, reaching for the shield leaning against the worktop. "Not that I know of," he uttered back. "I took a different route, same as always."

They held their silence for a while, Bucky's eyes fixed on the imposing metal of the door. Beyond seemed quiet now; perhaps the earlier thud had been activity in the shop. Bucky had vague memories of himself as a child wandering into abandoned buildings and entertaining Steve with tales of the monsters that dwelled within. Perhaps similar children had done the same to the shop with the massive 'CLOSED' signs that loomed above them.

The quiet lingered for so long he thought he saw Sam take a breath of relief, before the door blew forwards in a shower of smoke and brick and a loud blast followed, throwing Bucky from his chair and into the wall, stunning him. A chunk of debris almost smashed into his skull but he hurriedly blocked it with his metal arm which screeched in protest at the impact. Ash and dust clogged the air, making it difficult to breathe; there was a persistent ringing in his ears and a pain in his back that made getting up difficult. From the shadows he saw black shapes emerge but their shouting was muffled and in the panic he had lost all sight of his friends.

He tried to get up and groaned at the effort, pain blossoming from wounds he hadn't realised he'd received. There was a trickle of blood running into his eye but his free hand was covered in so much dust he couldn't wipe it away. Instinct took over in his brain, reminding him that he had to get away and that the stairway was only a few steps away from him, but the route was blocked by armed strangers and his path littered with debris. _"Just get up,"_ he told himself, trying to ignore the fact that his vision was swirling. " _You've faced worse than this, get up."_

Before he'd even made it a couple of steps, the butt of a gun slammed into his back and he fell, his metal arm useless to stop him from collapsing onto the rubble. A childish part of him tried to crawl away but he felt something else jamming into his back and all of a sudden the familiar bite of electricity caused his body to spasm and he could hear himself screaming amongst the chaos. The taser provided several more jolts before he could feel consciousness escaping him and he thought he heard a familiar voice shout his name before blackness replaced ash.

* * *

He woke in a white, tiled room with a heavily bolted door and a single latrine on the far wall. Comfort did not seem to factor into the room's design; he awoke curled on the floor with his back aching and his head throbbing but there was no bed or even a chair to settle himself on. Instead he dragged himself up and leaned against the wall, his metal arm dangling uselessly at his side. When he tried to move it, the fingers only twitched weakly and it still bore the scrapes and cracks dealt to it by flying rubble.

His flesh hadn't escaped the explosion unscathed either. He could feel bandages wrapped tightly around his forehead and, when he pulled his plain black shirt up, his abdomen was littered with purple bruises from being thrown across the room. Nothing seemed to be broken but as he had no way of knowing how long he'd been out, there was a chance something had been and had simply healed as he slept.

A rattle turned his attention to the door and he watched as a tray of food and water was pushed through a small one-way flap onto the floor. Likely he'd been labelled as a threat so dangerous that the less human contact he received the better, but he couldn't help thinking that even if someone had walked in his body ached too badly for him to even get to his feet, let alone fight. He was hungry enough that the food tempted him, and was only a short distance away, but the broth didn't look particularly appealing and he knew better than to eat anything when he had no idea of whose clutches he was in.

It was only then that he remembered that Steve and Sam had also been caught up in the explosion. Had they been captured too? Were they nearby, in an adjacent cell or being questioned elsewhere? Bucky hoped not. He had so little friends that it would serve him better if those two acted as outside help, and it might delay the government's wish to expose him to the world as the killer he'd become. Besides, Steve had still been conscious enough to shout his name as Bucky blacked out; he must have been able to put up a good fight. He couldn't speak for Sam though.

Time passed slowly in the white room; the lights never went out and there was a suspicious lack of outside noise that made the ringing in his ears seem that much more pronounced. There was no way to sleep comfortably and even if there was, he was not tired enough to expose himself to night terrors, and the dead weight of the metal arm started to weigh him down and caused the entire shoulder joint to ache painfully. In order to calm his racing mind, he tried counting every tile in the room as if it were simply an exercise Sam would have set but he got bored when every tile had been counted twice. Eventually he reached over to the tray of food but by that point the watery broth was cold and he gave up after four mouthfuls.

Bucky wondered if this was to be his prison. Had the government taken Steve's silence as a refusal of their proposition, and therefore felt obligated to lock him away for good? But no; it had been a trial they'd threatened, not imprisonment. That would come after his name and reputation had been publicly dragged through the mud.

By the time a guard did arrive he'd dozed off twice (and each time been jolted awake by flashbacks to his time in cryo) and four more meals had been passed through the door. He looked up at the imposing guard with bleary eyes and imagined he must look a sight, curled up in a heap in an empty room, but the man said nothing and simply marched forward, gun at the ready. Bucky resisted the urge to flinch back and simply watched as the guard crouched down beside him, took his arms and fastened them tightly into handcuffs before dragging him to his feet and shoving him out the door into a dark grey corridor. Bucky took the whole thing as he would have done as the Asset. Although the forced restraint made him want to punch something, he imagined that going along with what was expected of him would be easier until he at least figured out what was going on.

The guard led him wordlessly down the corridor and up two flights of stairs until they reached a room set up for interrogation, with a two way mirror on the opposite wall and a table in the centre complete with tape recorder and camera. Bucky only spoke once on their journey to ask where he was, but the guard seemed sworn to silence and wordlessly led him into the room and cuffed him to the table by his metal arm so that he was facing the mirror. The man had probably been told that the limb was damaged, otherwise Bucky knew he could easily have pulled himself free and made his escape then and there.

He was left alone for a few moments after that and passed the time by staring into space. The temptation to try to break free or show any signs of rebellion was overwhelming but he knew that people would be watching him right now and trying to judge how unhinged he was. He had no intention to add fuel to their case against him.

The door finally opened and a dark-haired man dressed in a suit stepped in, deep in conversation with the outside guard. It seemed he was refusing the man's protection. "I'm pretty sure I can defend myself against someone who looks like a kicked puppy, relax," he said finally and, defeated, the sullen guard closed the door behind him.

The new arrival seemed familiar to Bucky, although there was something about the face that was wrong. It seemed like the echo of someone Bucky had once known, from the intelligent brown eyes to the moustache, but memory hadn't served him well enough recently to provide a name. Although, now that he thought about it, he had seen this particular man strewn about newspapers and posters and the name from Steve and Sam's many discussions came back to him.

"You're Stark?" It made sense now. Tony Stark was a supporter of the Superhuman Registration Act and him being here meant that Bucky was in the government's hands. Steve had never really had a choice in the matter it would seem; they were intent on claiming the Winter Soldier no matter what happened. At the very least, he was glad they weren't Hydra.

"Tony's fine," the man said flippantly as he took the seat opposite. There was an air about him that Bucky instantly disliked, and he doubted he'd ever be on a first-name basis with him regardless of his wish. "Now, Barnes, I'm going to assume that you're not an idiot and you know why you're here."

Steve's words came back to him. "You want me to come out as a supporter of this Act."

"Sort of," Stark started, glancing back at the two-way mirror before continuing. "Those of us who recognise that brainwashed people probably can't be held responsible for Hydra's actions want you to do that. And believe me, there's less of us than I'd like. The Winter Soldier's actions aren't highly publicised yet but James Buchanan Barnes is a historical sweetheart who died for his country. People might be more sympathetic if..."

"If I do what they want and parade myself for people like you to use as they please," Bucky continued, bitterly. He'd heard this song and dance before, and performed it. The Winter Soldier had always been more a symbol of terror than a living, breathing assassin; besides his training he'd only been used around two dozen times over seventy years. Only two people in all that time had thought of him as a person, and Bucky had no idea if they were even alive. "Where's Steve and Sam Wilson? Do you have them?"

Stark ignored the question, although he didn't seem particularly happy about having to do so. It occurred to Bucky that he must be on the spotlight just as much as himself. "Look, it's as good a deal as you're ever going to get. We can even make up a different backstory for you. All you need to do is come out in support of the Act for as long as its a hot topic and then you're free to go. There are people here who have suggested a lot worse for you."

"People always want a lot worse." Bucky could handle any punishment they threw at him, he decided. When he'd left Hydra it was in search of the person he'd once been; in the hope that he could become whole again, or close. He was not about to agree to be used as a pawn all over again, acting in the best interests of powerful men who couldn't give two shits about him. Especially not for something that would persecute those who had suffered in similar ways to himself. "This Act of yours is going to hurt a lot of people, Stark."

"It'll save a lot of people," Stark replied insistently. "People like us, we've done a lot of damage without anything there to keep us in line. The public wants some assurance that we won't snap and blow up the planet." He tried to smile but it wasn't nearly as convincing as he was aiming for. He cast another glance at the mirror before lowering his voice. "Look, Steve is a friend of mine as much as yours. There are people here who want to hurt and use you for their own means, but I have no desire to put either of you through that again so do me a favour and think on it. For his sake if not your own."

Bucky only took away one important message from his plea; Steve was alive. Stark worrying about him ensured he must be. He felt himself smiling, in spite of the situation. When he looked at Stark again he realised why he'd seemed so familiar. A fleeting memory of a science fair came to mind; of a pretty girl with dark hair and Steve wandering off and...

"Your father promised us flying cars." Bucky hadn't meant to say it, but he'd remembered his younger self's excitement in the heat of that moment and felt a surge of disappointment on the behalf of that ghost. It felt better to remember that than focus on the present.

Stark seemed taken aback by the statement, something which Bucky noticed and took as a victory. He gathered himself quickly enough, however, and gave a small smile. "Well, he got a bit distracted." Despite him trying to make light of the topic, his expression had darkened slightly and Bucky noticed that the smile never reached the man's eyes. "Will you consider what I've said?"

Thinking it best not to refuse, Bucky nodded and Stark seemed satisfied enough with that. He rose to his feet and knocked four times on the door, which was opened for him by the waiting guard. He lingered for a moment as if indecisive before turning back to face Bucky. "Do you remember much of my father?"

Bucky considered this for a moment. He knew from his visit to the Smithsonian and subsequent visits to libraries that Howard Stark had worked closely with Captain America and had had a hand in equipping the Howling Commandos, but he could scarcely remember any encounters with the man himself. Not enough to consider researching him further at least. "Not a lot," he admitted. He looked up at the younger Stark, who seemed almost disappointed. "You look like him."

That was apparently the wrong thing to say, as Stark quickly dropped his gaze and followed the guard out of the room, leaving Bucky alone once more.

* * *

 _That night, Bucky dreamed he was waiting at the side of a country road with a rifle at the ready, waiting patiently among tall grass for a target's car to approach. The road was quiet at this time of night. Only two cars had come this way but neither had been part of the mission so he let them pass and instead kept constant watch for headlights to break the darkness. A faceless man was whispering instructions into his earpiece but they were orders he'd heard countless times before and the Asset tuned them out, intent on his mission._

 _Soon enough, two headlights approached through the darkness and Bucky used the scope on his rifle to get a closer look at the license plate. Confirming the match, he shot at the front tyres and was rewarded with a screech of brakes and the sight of the car swerving wildly out of control and flipping as it slid across the road._

 _Something that may have been a compliment sounded in his ear but the mission wasn't finished yet. He finally emerged from his hiding place and approached the shattered, overturned car as quietly as a ghost, inspecting its occupants when he was close enough. The passenger was clearly dead, her neck lying at an unnatural angle and her eyes staring at nothing. The driver wasn't so fortunate; he was gasping for breath and scrabbling to free himself from his seatbelt but his grip was too weak. He looked up at the new arrival and his eyes widened with something other than fear, and for one strange moment the Asset thought it felt recognition._

" _Barnes?" the old man rasped, but the Asset couldn't focus on that. It had a job to do._

 _The man's neck snapped easily under his metal grip and_ Bucky woke with sweat dripping down his face, his breath catching in his throat, and with the very sudden conviction that he had to get away from this place.

* * *

It was around a week before he finally did anything about that. Planning an escape when his only assets included a metal arm that barely moved and a door flap that only opened one way and had barely enough room for his head, let alone the rest of him, wasn't as simple as he would have liked. In the end it came down to waiting until his serum took care of the damage from the explosion and hoping his strength and willpower would be enough when the time came. He also made a show of eating all the meals provided for him and being a model prisoner, refusing to kick up a fuss even when his boredom levels rose significantly.

When he felt as ready as he was ever likely to be, he waited patiently by the door for the daily tray to be pushed through and hurriedly shouted out "Wait!" before the flap had closed. Whoever waited on the other side seemed curious enough to heed his request and he continued. "I've considered Stark's proposal. I'll do it, I'll talk to someone about it. Could you pass that on?"

The metal flap stayed open for a few seconds but no reply came. When it slammed shut again, Bucky slumped against the wall and hoped he'd done enough. Until the opportune time he knew he would need to be constantly on his guard; listening out for even the slightest noise and willing to strike at any moment. However he was also aware that there were likely eyes on him right now so he put on a show of being nonchalant in the hopes that his building tension wouldn't be obvious.

It felt like hours before he heard muffled footsteps from the other side of the door and he tensed, preparing to get up the minute the door showed any signs of opening and clenching the fist of his good arm to strike at the right moment. When the tell-tale click of the bolts unlocking sounded he sprang to his feet and launched himself at the unsuspecting guard – a younger man than the last – and slammed his head against the metal surface of the door. Bucky thought he heard a crunch before the guard went down but he couldn't dwell on that and he sprinted down the corridor towards the stairwell, constantly alert for the shouts of other guards or witnesses. He only passed one man on the way but he was too slow in his reflexes and Bucky had punched him into unconsciousness before he'd had the chance to reach for his gun.

By the time he reached the stairs, someone had sounded the alarm and Bucky knew he would just have to run for it and hope. He doubted a full-on escape was even possible as too many eyes were on him, but he needed to get far enough away that he could get some sense of what was happening on the outside. He needed to know what was happening on Steve's side of the war.

Ignoring the twinge of pain on his left side due to the useless weight of the prosthetic, he darted down the steps four at a time, ignoring the blaring alarms as best he could. Eventually he was aware of the rush of feet on his tail and one look down the side of the bannister showed him several guards making their way up to meet him. Swearing under his breath, he quickly exited the stairwell onto the next floor, running past what seemed to be offices and ignoring the screams and curious looks until he came out onto a balcony. Looking down he saw that he was only three floors above the ground floor and was looking out onto a spacious atrium with wide, open windows showing off a bright summer's day. He was so close to fresh air, to the glimpse of a newspaper headline that told him what he needed to know...

More footfalls were approaching now from both directions and he looked up just in time to swerve and avoid a bullet aimed for his thigh. Not having the time to think and knowing he couldn't take out so many armed men at once, he leapt from the balcony onto the atrium and was met with the startled cries of the crowds on the floor. He landed on his left side and felt the metal screech in protest and dig painfully into his ribs and for a heartbeat he was in too much pain to get up. However, he knew he had to or he'd be at the mercy of bullets raining down from above and, ignoring the sharp pain every time he inhaled, he rose shakily to his feet and ran into the crowd as quickly as he could. Most people scattered but he was still surrounded to such an extent that to shoot him would put civilians in danger, and the guards would not risk that. Or so he hoped.

There was an open door at the other end of the hall, past the reception desks and security checkpoints, and Bucky made his way towards them until a sharp pain in his leg along with the struggle to breathe caused him to stumble. An inspection of his leg was enough to tell him that a bullet had nicked his thigh but he couldn't dwell on that, he was so close...

However by the time he rose to his feet, more armed guards were heading his way from the exit he'd been aiming for and the crowd had scattered enough that he was fair game. He wanted to continue fighting and was almost tempted to run uncaring towards their gunfire. Perhaps the serum would protect him long enough to at least make it outside. That temptation vanished when he heard men approaching from behind and he froze, his body aching all over and his lungs screaming.

"Put your hands on your head and get down on your knees!" shouted a demanding voice from behind him and Bucky cast one feeble look at the guards standing between him and brief freedom before slowly obeying, careful not to make any sudden movements that could lead to a trigger being pulled out of panic. He was aware of the crowds watching him from the sidelines, the frantic whispers labelling him as dangerous but he couldn't bring himself to care as he felt a gun rest against the back of his head. "You gonna try something stupid like that again, Soldier?"

He shook his head, and the unseen guard snapped, "Good!" before calling for assistance and, in a move that shouldn't have surprised Bucky at this point, using a taser to ensure his charge wouldn't fight back.

Perhaps it was the pain from the fall or the fact that he was too exhausted to protest, but it took the guard a lot less effort than usual before Bucky slumped forwards and blacked out.

* * *

It was a long while before anyone came for him again after that.

Bucky couldn't particularly blame his captors for that. Although he had not yet been told of the fate of his previous guard he could still remember the sickening crunch he'd heard as the man was slammed up against the door and his nightmares had run wild with adding more detail to that memory. His body still ached from the fall and the sensation of electricity coursing through him but he could not move even if he was whole; his captors had had the good sense to chain him to the wall by his metal arm and they seemed to have tinkered with it in his unconsciousness to ensure it was truly useless. He did not have the strength to break free.

The extra security and silence did not seem optimistic. Even his meals had stopped, although water was still pushed through the flap on occasion. It was likely that the next person he saw would be his executioner; chances were his sentence was being decided right this minute while he could not speak up to defend himself. He found that he didn't mind that prospect. Death had been chasing him for many years now and he'd lived too long. Better to die as version of himself than as a weapon. He just hoped he'd receive some news of Steve first.

There was an ominous click at the door and, with a screech, it pulled open to reveal Tony Stark once again. Bucky was almost glad to see a familiar face until he noticed his grim expression and the heavy bags under his eyes. There'd been another fight judging by the look of him; there was a fading yellow bruise on his right cheek and he had a cut on his left brow that had required stitches. Any concern Bucky may have had for him was overwhelmed by curiosity however; had Steve been involved, was he hurt too, was he in any of the surrounding cells?

He thought it best not to ask as Tony wordlessly threw over the key to his chains so that it clattered by Bucky's feet. It did not seem that there was any notion of helping him escape however, as two armed guards stepped into view beside Stark, looking down at him as if they'd happily put their guns to good use. Likely they would get their wish sooner rather than later.

Accepting that Stark was here as an escort rather than a friend, Bucky grabbed the key and quickly unlocked the chain. Upon its release his arm flopped uselessly to the ground with a clunk and despite his efforts to move it, it remained a dead weight by his side. Sighing, he rose to his feet and cast a final look back at his white cell before making his way to the door. While neither of the guards shied away from his gaze, he noticed that Stark seemed to be actively avoiding him and had found some curiosity with the floor. Bucky tried not to let his mind linger on that.

"We're to take you," Stark said, actively avoiding mention of a location. Bucky gathered he had little choice but to follow and set off after the first guard who'd started leading the way down the grey corridors. He thought he heard Stark whisper something that sounded like 'forgive me' but he had no wish to dwell on what that meant.

The walk was long and tortuous; nobody spoke a word to him and the few people they passed barely cast him a single glance. Endless corridors eventually gave way to stairs that took them to levels so deep Bucky knew they must be far below ground by the time they chose another corridor. It didn't take long for him to accept that he was going to his death; a fact that he accepted relatively calmly in his mind but had his heart thudding uselessly in his chest to the extent that he started to feel sick.

The guard ahead of him turned a final corner into a cold room packed full of men in suits, all of whom turned to stare at the new arrivals. Their accusing eyes burned but Bucky had noticed that they'd all been gathered around something before they'd been interrupted and that concerned him far more than their judgement. He looked beyond the crowd, expecting to see a firing range or maybe even Steve...

It was neither.

Sat in the centre of the room was a sickeningly familiar machine streaming with wires and attached, along with several vices, to a chair.

Bucky's heart seemed to have sunk into his stomach and he froze even as the guards tried to push on, his voice smaller than he intended when he asked, "What is this?"

A tall, thin man in a black suit whose pale eyes seemed to be devoid of life stepped in front of the machine and refused to even look at him as he replied, "It will all be over soon if you co-operate." He had a bored manner that one would expect more of a doctor taking a reluctant patient's blood, but his reply sent a chill down Bucky's spine and he shook his head frantically before instinctively backing away...

The barrel of a gun stuck into his back but he hardly cared and continued trying to push his way out of the room, punching anyone who touched him with his working arm. With a twinge of satisfaction he felt someone's jaw crack under his fist, but that was broken when he felt something stab into his neck and within seconds his limbs felt weightless and he was forced over to the chair. Despite his best efforts, his arm simply flailed uselessly and his legs dragged across the floor, powerless to take him away from the device of his nightmares.

Bucky was aware that he was frantically protesting but was barely in control of what he was saying; all he heard was his own voice yelling variations of 'stop' and 'please' but he sounded so panicked he could barely believe it was him. He was only dimly aware of the pale man tightening the vices around his arms and locking him in place before turning away without a single glance and working on the machine by his side. The two guards who'd escorted him here were trying to conceal smirks while everyone else looked either bored or only mildly interested in the proceedings. Only one person in the room seemed to have the courtesy to look unhappy by what was going on.

"Tony! Tony I'm sorry, I didn't know what I was doing..." Images of Maria Stark slumped brokenly in her seat and Howard's surprise at his murderer's identity flashed across his mind and the nausea returned. Behind him, the machine was whirring with activity and like a frightened child, Bucky tried to shy away despite being trapped. "Tony, please!"

For the first time, Tony's eyes raised to meet his. The shadows under his eyes seemed exaggerated from this distance and his mouth opened as if to say something and for a fleeting moment Bucky felt a surge of hope.

However if Tony made any move to help after that it was too late for Bucky to notice. He felt a pressing weight at his temples and heard the buzz of electricity and at that point there was nothing left to do but scream.


	2. Sam

**A/N - Soooo, this is turning into a monster :) Thanks to everyone who commented and asked for more, I honestly am having fun writing this and I'm glad you seem to like it so far.**

 **Just a note about continuity - the first 2/3rds of this chapter take place around the same time as the first in order to give you Steve and Sam's perspective on what's going on outside, but the end does deal with the aftermath. Hopefully I haven't completely messed up with that format. Also the whole chapter is from Sam's POV just as the last was from Bucky's.**

 **As always, thanks for reading :D Any reviews are welcome and hopefully I'll be able to update relatively soon.**

* * *

Sam woke to the harshness of white light and instantly wished he hadn't.

He felt like he'd been hit by a truck, although he could imagine that being less painful. His body ached all over, and a wheeze on his inhale signified that at least one rib was cracked or broken, but at the very least he could say he was alive. There had been a moment, when the force of the blast had thrown him back and his vision had whitened out upon landing on rubble, where he'd accepted that he was likely done for. As it was, he couldn't remember any of the aftermath of that surprise ambush, and he wasn't particularly sure he wanted to.

Forcing his eyes open a fraction wider to adapt to the light, he was able to make out the shape of a man sitting by his bed – the type of freakishly big that could only be Steve. He almost smiled at that until he noticed Bucky's absence and a sensation like ice spread throughout his chest. It was likely that the man was simply huddled in a corner somewhere, avoiding confrontation as he'd done in the weeks since they had discovered him. Sam had no need to worry; the ex-assassin had his own version of the serum, and if Sam in all his useless humanity had survived then both of his partners must have done as well. That did not keep the worry from his mind, however.

His body protested as he tried to sit up and he gave a quiet groan that caused the man at his side to look up - his face lined with exhaustion and barely healed from the cuts the explosion had dealt it. Steve brightened slightly at the sight of Sam awake, and leaned forward in his chair even though it was unlikely there was anything more he could do to help. "How are you feeling?"

Sam considered a joke answer, although he wasn't sure either of them were in the mood. "Like I got caught in an explosion," he admitted, trying to smile even though it must have come out as a wince. The answer seemed to dissipate some tension from the air, but not as much as Sam would have liked. "Where's some miracle serum when you need it?"

Steve laughed weakly, before making some adjustments on the monitor beside him. At the sudden relief Sam felt, he assumed his morphine levels had just been increased. "Sorry man. I need you to be slower than me on our morning runs. It helps the ego."

The answer would have been enough to make Sam burst into laughter once, but he couldn't help but notice that any attempt Steve made at smiling never reached the eyes and he shrank back into silence almost as soon as the smart-ass comment had been made. Something had happened – beyond the whole 'we nearly blew up and got ambushed' thing.

A look around the room revealed a clinically white space not unlike a hospital, but the place was too quiet and the machinery surrounding them too old. It was likely another safehouse; with luck a more secure one than the last, which had served purely out of necessity. At the very least that meant they hadn't been caught, but that should have been cause for celebration and Steve did not look like a man who'd happily cheated death in one piece.

"They took him, didn't they?" Sam knew he didn't need the confirmation, but Steve nodded anyway, his fists clenching and his attention seemingly drawn to a random spot on the wall. A surge of anger spread throughout Sam, but he made sure to hide it; he knew Steve would be emotional enough for the both of them. The last thing their situation needed was a lack of sanity.

It wasn't fair though. Sam had helped Steve search for Bucky for two long years, following cold lead after cold lead until _finally_ they'd found him; trapped in a vice like a wild dog and barely recovered from everything that Hydra had done to him. He couldn't pretend that he'd known the man long enough to feel anything close to what Steve must be experiencing, but the anger was there all the same. Bucky had been safe, for the first time in seventy years, and now he was once again in the hands of enemies. And all the while there was little they could do to help.

"We'll get him back, Steve," Sam said, in an attempt to be reassuring that almost certainly fell flat. "Barnes is a tough son-of-a-bitch; he'll give them hell until we can get him back."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Steve admitted, finally able to talk about it. "You read the file, remember. Every time he fought back or showed even a hint of rebellion, they just hurt him more."

 _That was Hydra,_ Sam wanted to say, but he knew deep down that Steve was right. Perhaps only a few years ago, politics had been slightly more black-and-white, but desperate times had shown the ugly colours on all sides. SHIELD had been the face of Hydra for decades, and even those who were unaware of that infiltration had approved a missile attack on Manhattan during the first 'incident'. And now the government was hunting down people who had special abilities or dangerously high intelligence for their own ends, and there was no guarantee that they wouldn't use harmful means to get what they wanted. In truth, Barnes was likely no safer with them than he'd been as the Winter Soldier, but that knowledge would not help Steve right now.

Steve took a deep breath and rubbed his tired eyes, before finally meeting Sam's gaze. Sam was tempted to tell him to get some sleep – they were both hilariously beaten-up – but the words never came. Instead, Steve got to his feet and made a dismissive comment concerning a phone-call to Natasha, before leaving Sam in peace with a small smile and an order to get some rest. Sam's stubborn streak made him want to get up and follow his friend, but he was very aware that the morphine – for all the relief it brought – had left him exhausted, and any opportunity to escape his pain for a few hours was one he would welcome with open arms. He could deal with their many issues later.

* * *

The next few days were a matter of easing himself off the morphine and getting used to being back on his feet. Thankfully, his wounds were less severe than they could have been and his previous tours had put him through worse, so recovery was easier than he'd expected. His ribs were only cracked, and not broken as he'd feared, and most of his aches and pains were superficial; a common side-effect of being thrown around like a rag doll. The worst of it had passed in his two days of unconsciousness, which Sam was grateful for. He'd happily take his strange, drug-induced dreams over the consciousness of pain any day.

If anything, the monotony of the base made him itch to get out and about and take in some fresh air, but he followed Steve's advice obediently and took things one step at a time. The first day since waking was spent in the make-shift hospital bed; poring over the internet to see what he had missed (in short: not much. Or at least nothing that was being released to the public), while the second onwards was spent exploring the base.

This one had the major improvement over the first in that it was one of Nick Fury's, which made it easily less detectable and far more secure. It was also more comfortable; there were five bedrooms, three bathrooms with blessedly warm showers, a spacious lounge with undetectable computers and old SHIELD devices, and a kitchen stocked full of food including cans to last up to three years. For all that Sam had made of Fury's paranoia when they'd first met, it seemed to be serving them well at the moment.

He and Steve seemed to be the only permanent residents, although Scott Lang had supposedly dropped by once and Clint Barton had expressed interest in joining them in order to keep his family out of danger. Natasha also visited but rarely made herself at home. She had too much work on the outside for that.

On his explorations, Sam noticed that Steve had reserved a room for Barnes should any attempt to get him back prove successful. It wasn't overly impressive – just a single-bed and a table with a cupboard for clothes – but Sam imagined that would suit the old soldier. There was a panic button on the wall to alert anyone else in the base, which would prove useful during flashbacks, and Steve had set aside some photos on the table as old reminders of his past. Between those, to Sam's surprise, was a slightly charred notebook that he himself had given as a gift.

In the beginning, back in their old base when Barnes was still unpredictable, Sam had started talking to him purely out of desire to make himself useful. It had been a while since he'd left the VA, but the skills were still there and if anyone could swallow the madness that Barnes had been through he supposed it was himself. The man had been almost hostile at first; unwilling to speak on most days and, on the occasions where he did open up, almost too gleeful in sharing details of his past missions and many kills. It was like he was testing Sam, trying to convince him that he was the monster everyone said he was.

However, when it became clear that Sam was unwilling to back down, the stories had changed from the macabre to the personal; Barnes stopped telling of other people's suffering and started feeling more comfortable in sharing his own. Sam had listened patiently to stories of old handlers beating 'the Asset' into submission when he displeased them, before trying to convince him that his work was for the good of mankind. He listened to stories of those few moments of consciousness in cryo, where the cold had been suffocating and made Barnes beg for sleep, and of the dreaded chair which burned the memories from his mind until he was an empty shell to be fashioned to his handler's design.

The latter fact had always made Barnes tense up and he rarely spoke in depth about such occasions, so Sam never pushed the subject. Nor did he share any of what he was told to Steve; he knew the file had told the Captain much, but everything else he could learn when Bucky felt comfortable. Sam had, however, provided Barnes with a notebook to write down his thoughts and memories if speaking became too much, and now he was left holding it in his hands – the cover burnt but most of the pages intact.

Not much had been written on the pages, although Sam hadn't expected anything else. Instead of long passages of text, Bucky had mostly written down words and phrases as they came back to him, mostly in Russian and aligned with dates or place names. One page contained a list of names from Arnim Zola, to Aleksander Lukin, to Pierce, while others bore hastily scribbled sketches of people or items – one such sketch bore an image of a cylinder Sam assumed to be the cryo tube. Some pages just repeated ' _I'm sorry'_ over and over.

Sam could feel himself shaking, so he quickly closed the book over and placed it back on the table. It was not his place to pry too deeply into Barnes's affairs – people had been doing that to him longer than Sam had been alive. Besides, he barely knew the man and any emotional connection established had mostly been through Steve and his desperation to bring his friend home.

That didn't stop the unease that stirred in Sam's gut everytime he thought too deeply about what Hydra had done, however. After he'd read the file on the Winter Soldier, and in those first few days following Bucky's recovery, Sam had started experiencing vivid nightmares concerning Riley. Those were not uncommon, even now, as his dreams often subjected him to watching Riley fall while he was left to linger uselessly in the sky.

However, unlike before, the dreams no longer ended there; instead Sam would be a constant observer as faceless men recovered his wingman from the ground, dragged him bloody and broken to an underground base and tortured him endlessly, and all the while Sam would scream in frustration despite no-one seeming to hear. He would watch as Riley had his memories burned out of his head, had a killing machine attached to his shoulder and was sent out as a dull-eyed killer, and Sam would wake on sweat-soaked sheets having bitten his tongue, wondering how Steve could possibly stand it.

And now, Bucky could be back in that situation. Even if the government were more reliable than an organisation deemed on par with the Nazis, they still held Barnes prisoner against his will and Sam couldn't begin to guess what they would be willing to do to him. For all his bravado about getting the man back, it was quickly becoming clear that they'd have to do so quickly or it could be too late.

* * *

Around five days after he'd, albeit shakily, gotten back on his feet, Steve approached Sam in the lounge with an apologetic look that had him instantly pausing the news on TV. "I need you to meet up with Nat," he said, collapsing onto the couch beside Sam with a bonelessness that suggested he hadn't slept in a while. "She would have come here, but she suspects she's being watched and she can't afford to blow her cover. And I would go myself but-"

"It's alright, Steve, I'll do it." If anything, Sam was grateful for the opportunity to go outside. The base may be comfortable, but being cooped up anywhere was likely to drive him crazy before long. Besides, if Nat was arranging a meeting in public, there was no way Steve could manage it without being recognised. "Where are we meeting?"

Steve thanked him gratefully before handing over the details Natasha had provided and going off in search of clothes Sam could wear as a disguise. The destination was a café in the centre of D.C, the name of which Sam vaguely recognised, and she wanted to meet at half-one that afternoon – only two hours from now. It wasn't too far to travel if you rejoined the main streets from the base, but there was a sense of urgency that had Sam hurriedly throwing on an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt anyway. He also chose a baseball cap and sunglasses in the hope that any chance of recognition would be squashed, but he was hardly the most famous of faces anyway and logic told him he would likely be fine. Finally, after making sure he was topped up on pain-meds and had left Steve with a friendly hug to put the other man at ease, he started the long climb up a narrow stairway before ending up at the abandoned warehouse that served as the cover for their hideout.

One bus ride and several subway stops later had him in the general area, and he quickly double-checked the address of the café before making his way through the throng of people, keeping his head down as much as possible. Thankfully it was easy enough to blend into the crowd – some nearby tourists drew far more attention than he ever could – and he only received one dirty look from an elderly man before reaching his destination. A glance at his watch told him he was ten minutes early and he felt it safe enough to remove his cap before heading inside and ordering a cappuccino.

Despite its ideal location, the place was almost empty with only an office-worker in the corner, frantically typing away on a laptop, and a group of young women chattering away in French. Sam felt himself becoming more comfortable despite technically being a fugitive, and sipped away at his coffee while poring over a day-old newspaper. Nothing in the headlines particularly stood out, although a small article suggested that Stark and the government were having more private talks than usual, but Sam assumed he'd learn more of what he needed to hear from Natasha anyway.

While the spy was technically on their side – her past ensured that complete alliance with the SRA was dangerous – her skills allowed her to be a valuable asset in infiltrating the government as well. She'd officially remained with SHIELD while handing over what secrets she could to Steve and, though Tony seemed to be aware that she was a spy, none of their other powerful opponents fully suspected her as of yet. As for Tony, while he seemed solemn enough in his support of the Act, he was also uncomfortably aware that the reason he was being thrust completely into the spotlight was solely so that the public could see him atone for Ultron. That didn't mean he supported everything the government was doing lately and if he let some secrets slip to Romanoff, well, who was to say he knew she'd pass them along?

The bell above the café door clanged and Sam heard a familiar woman's voice order an iced tea, although the accent was significantly more 'Boston' than usual. He looked up to see Natasha sporting a long, black wig and clad in a leather jacket and pants, with large sunglasses obscuring her face. She certainly drew the eye, and yet if Sam hadn't been expecting her he couldn't say he'd even have recognised her.

She noticed him and smiled before walking over with her drink. "Hey, James! Mind if I sit?" Hardly in a position to say no, Sam nodded and folded up his newspaper before waiting expectantly. Natasha didn't start talking right away, choosing instead to sip at her tea and glance at the headlines herself, and Sam noticed that she was waiting for the lone waitress to look away and turn her attention to the French girls.

When she was finally satisfied they weren't being watched, Nat removed her sunglasses and greeted Sam with an expression that was almost stern. "I've spoken to Tony. Steve's right; your boy's in their hands."

Sam nodded, not having expected much else. "But he's alive? I mean, they wouldn't kill him, would they?"

"Some certainly want to," Nat replied, sipping again at her tea as if their conversation was merely about the weather. "Most of the Winter Soldier's killings were political, remember. Some are scared he'll strike again and think it'll be better if he's put down before that can happen." Sam doubted he was concealing his horror, but she took no notice. "Don't worry. They're in the minority and Stark won't have it. He cares too much about Steve for that, and the government isn't going to risk a massive disagreement with their main star. But you still need to get Barnes out of there."

"I know that." Sam thought back to the notebook and all of Barnes's recollections and felt himself shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Even before he'd been taken it had been proposed that Barnes be paraded around for the sake of the Act, and Sam wasn't sure he'd survive the public's vitriol and rabid judgement after all these years in the shadows. "How do we get him out?"

"I'm working on that," Natasha said casually, flicking a black strand of hair behind her ear. From here, Sam could see that she'd applied heavy eye-liner and her t-shirt bore the name of a band he'd never heard of. There was a genius in her disguise that left him feeling under-dressed – she may stand out, but he'd seen several girls almost identical to her on the way here alone. "It'll have to wait though. Stark wants to meet with the two of you tonight. He was annoyingly adamant about that."

At Sam's answering scowl, she set aside her drink and traded nonchalance for an expression he would have taken as solemn if he hadn't grown so used to her tricks. "Look, Stark isn't your enemy in this. He's doing as he's told because otherwise the government could use Ultron as an excuse to take control of all of his work, and we both know why that's a bad idea. He wants your boy safe, and he's using all of his influence to keep him that way, so it might be worth hearing him out."

Sam considered that a moment. Nat left him to his silence, taking a renewed interest in her drink, and Sam watched the world go by outside the café windows. How sweet it must be to have an ordinary life these days, he thought. To not be burdened by nightmares in which your friends were tortured, only to wake up and realise that that was a twisted reality. To not have fall-outs between friends result in devastating consequences. And yet, Sam doubted he would ever go back to a time before Steve, even if given the chance.

He sighed and leaned forward again, keeping his voice down as the louder patrons had now left and they were alone with the stressed office-worker. "Do you trust Stark? How do we know we're not walking into a trap?"

"He seemed sincere enough," she replied, although they both knew that sincerity didn't necessarily translate to trustworthy. "He said he'd bring along Rhodes for company – if anyone else tags along I doubt he'll even know about it. Clint and I could scout out the area beforehand; take out any unwelcome visitors and cover your asses, if you need it." She smirked, but the humour didn't quite reach her eyes enough for Sam to be reassured. "Look, at the very least, pass the message onto Steve. He can get back to me and if everything falls flat on its face, I'll help figure something else out. But if you really want to help Barnes, it might be worth hearing what Stark has to say."

With that, she downed the rest of her tea, and set aside a small tip for the waitress before getting to her feet. Her voice slipped into a perfect Boston accent once more as she declared, perhaps louder than necessary, "It was so nice to see you again! You definitely up for Saturday night?"

Sam nodded, playing along as the waitress had turned their way, and watched as Natasha made her way outside, smiling at the waitress and thanking her for the 'excellent tea'. The young girl blushed and smiled shyly, before making her way over to the table and collecting her tip. Sam set aside his own before finishing his now lukewarm coffee and heading out onto the streets himself.

* * *

Despite all of Natasha's assurances and Steve's eventual agreement to the plan, Sam would be lying if he said he felt comfortable on the way to the meeting point. This entire situation stank too heavily of the last; in which Steve had been lured out of safety to hear a proposal only to have armed men ambushing them that very night. Stark may not have had a hand in that situation, but he was on the side of the people who had, and that didn't exactly fill Sam with confidence.

Steve too had been reluctant at first. When Sam had relayed the details of Natasha's meeting to him upon his return to base, Steve had been quiet and withdrawn for a good while afterwards. It had gotten to the point where Sam had simply assumed the meeting wasn't happening. However, eventually he watched as Steve sent a message before leaping to his feet upon receiving the reply, telling Sam to get ready.

'Getting ready' had translated to grabbing a gun but nothing else, and even Steve was clad in civilian clothes. Given that they were to face Iron Man and War Machine, Sam felt very exposed without his wings, but if Stark was telling the truth they would be equally unimpressive.

The meeting place was to be a small park in the suburbs; far from prying eyes and the threat of eavesdropping technology. Presumably, Nat and Clint had already declared the place as being safe, although Sam knew they'd remain in the shadows just in case, and the late timing of their meeting reduced the chances of being discovered. All there was left to do was get there, and hope Stark wasn't a lying bastard like half of his allies seemed to be.

 _He's not your enemy in this,_ Sam reminded himself, remembering Natasha's words. Stark was trying to help in the limited way that he could. It was just difficult to trust people when his bones still ached and he was surviving on painkillers in order to operate like a normal human being.

Sam and Steve, clad in hoodies, wandered down the quiet streets in silence before reaching the entrance to the park and following the trails to the lake where Stark had promised to meet. The place was almost beautiful, with its tall trees allowing moonlight to stream through the leaves and lovingly tended flowers arranged in plots along their path. When they reached the lake, the moonlight bounced off its surface like a looking glass and ducks quacked in the distance, seemingly annoyed at having been disturbed. It was strange to think that in a few hours, dog-walkers and morning joggers would pass by this route without the slightest clue as to who had been there the night before.

They seemed to be alone for now, although Steve assured him this was the right place. Sam thought it was almost too modest – he could imagine Stark breaking the silence with a helicopter – but it might work considering none of them particularly wanted this conversation to be heard. Chances were that if they were discovered, Stark would be in more trouble than even them.

Finally, the distant crunch of leaves alerted them to approaching company and Sam saw Steve tense beside him. His own gun burned at his back, and he found himself praying to anyone that would listen that he wouldn't need to use it, as the familiar figures of Tony Stark and James Rhodes broke through the tree-line and met them in the clearing. Stark was almost hilariously overdressed for the occasion in his pristine black suit, but it seemed to grant him an authority that his exhausted expression couldn't muster. Rhodey was more casual in his leather jacket and jeans, although even he didn't particularly seem to belong here. Sam felt a twinge of regret at the sight of the man – the two had become good friends at the Avengers base and had even raced each other in their respective suits, but those days were gone.

"I guess a 'hey' is inappropriate?" Stark said, breaking a tension that had almost been palpable, but the flippant remark seemed too forced and Steve didn't so much as break a smile in response.

"Where is he, Stark?" he said instead, voice low and measured and as dangerous as Sam had ever heard it. "Where's Bucky?"

"You know I can't tell you that," Tony replied, almost regretfully, and Sam moved closer to Steve as if expecting the man to lunge forward and do something stupid. To his relief, the Captain remained calm. "He's safe, fucking miracle that that is. I've offered him a way out and he's been given time to dwell on that. If he's smart he'll go along with it."

"You want him to expose himself to the public, is that it?" It was Sam who spoke this time, remembering the conversation with Natasha all too clearly. That option might suit the men-in-suits, but the threat of Hydra was still far too raw for the public to accept the ex-Winter Soldier with open arms, regardless of his actual identity. If anything, they'd tear him apart. "You honestly think he'll go along with that after everything he's been through?"

Both men facing him tensed, Rhodey more so. Sam wondered just how invested he was in his friend's cause, or whether it was purely loyalty keeping him at Stark's side. He could understand that sentiment at least.

It was Rhodes who spoke next, and not Stark as expected. "We'd keep an eye on him. Make sure he's safe, keep the situation under control as best we can. Hopefully he won't need it, but if he does, there are people among us willing to guard him."

 _Rhodey, Stark and Natasha,_ Sam thought, counting off the few friends they had in the government's midst. _A small army, too small to defend_ _Barnes_ _._

"And what if it's your superiors who want to hurt him," Steve asked, so concentrated on Stark it looked like he was trying to burn a hole into the man's forehead. "What then?"

"Then I do exactly what I've been doing for the last week," Stark replied. There was a nonchalance in his tone that rubbed Sam up the wrong way; an arrogance that reminded him too much of the front Stark put on for the cameras. "I kick up a fuss until I get what I want. The government won't risk losing me, Capsicle. I'm the only thing of value they have on their side."

If that was supposed to be reassuring, Sam couldn't say it worked. There would come a time when the government grew tired of Stark's antics, and if they forced the public to turn on him then all of his technology could be at their mercy.

Tony sighed and turned his attention to the lake as if carefully avoiding them. "Look, Steve, I'm trying my best, but it won't be enough if you fight me at every turn. This Act is going to pass, we both know it. It's only a matter of time, and when it does, your boy's going to be displayed to the world whether we like it or not." He turned back to Steve, whose expression had become guarded. Whether he was dwelling on Stark's words or not, Sam couldn't tell in the low light. Stark's voice rose slightly as he continued. "So if you really want to protect him, perhaps you should stop depending on me and give up this damn fight already."

It was the wrong thing to say, and that thought had barely crossed Sam's mind when Steve finally lashed out, aiming a fist at Tony's face too quickly for Rhodes to leap to his friend's defence. Sam leapt into action and grabbed Steve back with as much force as he could manage – a more difficult task than he would have liked. Steve finally relented at Sam's low growl of 'it's not worth it', and broke away from the group to wander over to the lake, still shaking.

Rhodes visibly relaxed when the super-soldier left, although he refused to move from where he'd placed himself between Steve and his friend, and Tony was spitting blood onto the grass and rubbing at the spot on his cheek where he'd been hit. There was a cut on his left brow that was slowly leaking blood into his eye, but Stark made no effort to wipe it away, and instead of seeming angry at Steve's outburst he simply sagged slightly, before admitting, "Yeah, I deserved that."

Any tension that had been boiling under Sam's skin dissipated, and he suddenly felt very tired. The meeting was an an end, it would seem, but he wished he could walk away from it feeling like something had been achieved. Instead, all it had brought was more worries and problems, and Sam wasn't sure how much more both he and Steve could take. Taking a breath, and addressing Stark with as much authority as he could muster, he finally said, "Look, just try to keep Barnes safe until we figure something out, alright? That's all we ask."

There was a pause in which Sam almost expected a snarky rebuttal, but Stark simply nodded with as solemn an expression as one could muster when a bruise was blossoming on their face. It was Rhodey who spoke, finally satisfied that he probably wasn't going to have to leap to Stark's defence any time soon. "We will. If anything happens we'll get in touch through our mutual friend, but that shouldn't be necessary."

Sam could only hope so. He thanked whatever deity he could think of for Natasha's existence and the fact that she was helping them, and turned to look over to Steve, who was standing still and silent by the waters edge. "I hope so. Because I honestly don't think there's anything that can stop him from tearing the world apart if he loses Barnes again."

* * *

Despite everything having blown up during their moonlit meeting, the days that followed passed in an almost eerie calm. The base was quieter than ever with a distinct lack of visitors and all communications channels were silent; even from Natasha. Sam watched the news at least three times a day to see if any major developments were in the works, but the most exciting thing happening at the moment seemed to be some pop-star having a tantrum on stage. The lack of information seemed to be making Steve more agitated every day, but he never acted on it, seeming almost ashamed of his actions by the lake. Sam couldn't say he blamed the man for what he'd done though; staying underground with little information while his best friend could be suffering must be hell in its purest form for Steve. It was a small wonder he hadn't snapped sooner.

When they finally did get a visitor in the form of Natasha, Steve was so relieved that he actually ran up to hug her, to which she responded with a laugh that didn't sound quite as natural as she was intending. She'd come as herself; the black wig exchanged for her natural red curls and a make-up free face that seemed paler than usual. At Steve's prompting, she took a seat on the leather couch while Sam set about making everyone coffee, and when he returned with the steaming mugs he was surprised to note that they'd both remained silent as if waiting for him.

Nat took her mug gratefully and sipped at it, before reaching into a hidden pocket in her jacket and pulling out a small note. "I'm not going to pretend to know what this means," she said, handing the paper over to Steve as she spoke. "But it's the first thing I've heard from Stark in days. He's constantly been in meetings this past week, but they're so top-secret even I can't get into any of them. He seemed agitated this morning though. At a guess, I'm starting to think his influence is waning."

Steve had unfolded the note and was staring down at its contents with confusion. Sam leaned over to read a hastily scribbled message, almost too messy to read.

 _Bell's Building. Disguised as office block – really government facility. Floor 8, Room 824. Best chance midnight tonight – less busy. Romanoff can infiltrate security._

 _I'm so sorry._

 _Tony Stark_

Sam barely had time to take it in before his mind was buzzing. Was this where Bucky was? Why was Stark finally agreeing to help if that were the case? Was it something else, government files or information on those meetings Nat had mentioned?

Why was he sorry?

An uncomfortable weight settled in his stomach and Steve seemed to have picked up on the ominous tone of the note as well. He clutched the paper in his hand as if it were something precious and looked up at Natasha, suddenly urgent. "What do you know of this place?"

She set aside her coffee and leaned forward as if afraid she was being overheard. "It's pretty standard from the outside; tall office building, security checkpoints at the entrance, privately hired guards. I've looked at floor plans and the layout is simple enough, but there are at least ten underground floors that aren't publicly accounted for. Infiltrating it should be easy enough – I can locate the main security base before you head in and stop the alarm from being sounded for as long as I can. What bothers me is why the urgency? Stark has helped us in small ways before, but this is practically treasonous."

"Do you trust him?" Sam asked, suddenly paranoid that this could be an elaborate trap. Natasha nodded without hesitation, however. For Natasha to trust anyone, they'd have to be pretty damn sincere.

"Do you think it's Bucky?" Steve asked, almost as a whisper. It had gotten to the stage where any hope of getting him back had seemed worthless, but if that was what Stark was getting at then maybe...

"I'm up for it," Sam said, suddenly missing the thrill of action that the act of hiding had denied him. The prospect of breaking into a government building was almost exciting, if the stakes weren't stacked so high. He looked to Natasha, who didn't seem the least surprised by his statement. "If you think this is about Barnes, then I want to help."

"That seems the most likely reason," she admitted, looking over to Steve who had gone quiet in the last few moments. "I'll need to leave here soon, but if this is something you want to happen then I'll meet you at the entrance of the building at ten minutes to midnight. If you're not there, I'll head home and we can forget the note exists, but if you are I'll make my way inside, fight my way into the security base and let you inside. I'll be able to keep an eye on you there, direct the guards to other floors and stop the intruder alarms for as long as possible, but I'll need you to act quickly. Is that clear?"

Sam nodded while Steve pondered over the plan for a few moments, looking back down at the note at random intervals. He traced the written apology with his fingers a few times, before looking up with the same determination that had made Sam follow him in the first place.

"I'll do it."

* * *

Midnight approached them at a sluggish pace, while Sam and Steve spent the time getting ready and preparing what few weapons they had at hand. Sam chose a gun and a small knife and hoped that Natasha's actions would be enough to prevent either from being used, while Steve settled for his shield and only packed a gun as well when Sam suggested it might be a necessity.

They considered disguises, but Sam imagined that if the government were to suspect anybody of breaking Bucky Barnes out of imprisonment, it would be Captain America, so they seemed unnecessary. Instead, while they stuck to relatively casual clothes, they made less of an attempt to hide their faces than usual and Sam was grateful at the fact that he wouldn't be subjected to sunglasses at night.

At ten o'clock, they left the base and chose one of the black SUVs from the garage hidden beside the old warehouse to take them further into the city. The journey passed in relative silence; there was too much anticipation thrumming beneath the surface, and Sam didn't dare break it for the sake of conversation. Steve was the only one who spoke as they approached the looming building in question, turning to Sam with an 'Are you sure about this?" even though they both knew without saying that the answer was a definite yes.

They parked the car in an old lot relatively close to the building, and approached the entrance of what seemed to the public to be an ordinary office block; with a ground-floor atrium fully displayed by high windows and many floors which seemed to stretch into the scattered clouds. It was an ugly site, but a familiar one, and Sam almost wondered if they'd arrived at the wrong address until they were greeted by Natasha at the small sitting area close to the entrance, which was hidden from view of the windows by a copse of trees. She looked like an office worker herself, with her hair tied back and her attire suitably formal with a shirt-and-tie and black slacks. She would blend in perfectly, until she started overpowering men twice her size of course.

She seemed relieved to see them, and handed Steve an earpiece which he quickly put on. "I should be five minutes at most. The place is quiet, so getting upstairs should be easy enough. When I tell you it's safe, you head in there and you find your boy. I'll make my own way out so don't wait for me. Got it?"

"Got it," Sam and Steve replied in unison, and Sam allowed himself a small smile at that despite the fact that his heart was hammering in his chest. Without another word, Natasha wandered over to the automatic doors and disappeared from sight. Sam kept watch while Steve waited patiently for the 'all-clear' to sound in his ear, and both were as silent as a breeze as five minutes came and went. He was itching to just burst in, though he knew that would be unwise, and he noticed the lone security guard at the entrance leave his post before Steve tapped his shoulder and gave him the thumbs up.

They quickly made their way to the now deserted entrance and quickly ran through the spacious atrium until they reached a flight of stairs. It was almost too easy, Sam thought, but just as promised they met no passers-by as they climbed the steps to floors 2-3-4-5... and the open offices on the lower floors were empty even of late-night workers surviving on caffeine. By floor six, however, these standard offices had transformed into long, imposing corridors, but Sam barely had time to take them in as they continued to bound up the steps, until they finally reached the promised Floor Eight.

The corridor they emerged onto was cold and clinical with imposing grey walls and the occasional white light that only just stopped the place from being shrouded in blackness. Simply stepping out onto the floor was enough to make Sam shudder, and he took a moment to gather his breath before pressing onward. Steve seemed to have no time for such hesitation, and was already throwing frantic glances at the number of every door they passed. The closer they got to door 824, the heavier the air felt, and the only relief Sam felt came from the fact that, as promised, no-one had come their way and Natasha had so far been successful in preventing any alarms from being sounded.

Steve finally stopped ahead of him and, without a second thought, brought his shield down upon the lock with more force than was likely necessary. The thick, metal door practically shuddered at the impact, but didn't budge until Steve hit it again, breaking the lock and forcing the door forwards. Sam appeared at his side and took the lead in pushing the door open further, revealing a spotless, tiled room that was almost blindingly white and, in the very centre, a gurney upon which Bucky had been strapped down.

The man was as pale as death and twice as quiet; his eyes closed and chest so frighteningly still that Sam felt a horrifying weight settle in his stomach. Steve seemed to have noticed too, as he darted forwards and quickly brought his hands up to Bucky's face and neck, desperately feeling for a pulse and practically sobbing with relief when he found it. Sam too, noticed that the rise and fall of Bucky's chest was there, if worryingly light, and he made himself useful by working on the straps until the man was no longer tied down.

Bucky remained unconscious however, despite Steve's increasingly frantic requests of 'Wake up, please...', and, vaguely remembering his field training, Sam lifted an eyelid. The pupil narrowing in the light provided some comfort, but not enough – it would be difficult enough to get Bucky out of here without him being completely uncooperative as well. He leaned down as close to the man's ears as he could and spoke, in as loud a voice as he dared; "Look, Barnes, we're going to get you out of here, but we need you to wake up, okay? Can you do that for us?"

A few moments passed with no response, and Sam could practically see Steve planning to carry the man out of here bridal-style, until a hitched breath broke the silence and he looked down to see Bucky's eyelids flickering. Steve had gone almost rigid, but Sam paid him no mind, as blue eyes crept open and stared past them and up at the ceiling.

Instantly, Sam could sense that there was something wrong. Bucky's eyes seemed dull and lifeless, and there was no recognition in them. He remained frozen as he lay, as white as a ghost, and didn't even acknowledge that he had company until Steve placed a shaking hand on his cheek and quietly said his name. Blue eyes dragged painfully slowly onto Steve's face, but didn't seem to properly see him. If Steve noticed this, he didn't seem to care. "We're going to get you out of here, Buck. I promise."

Bucky's chest was starting to rise and fall with such rapidity that Sam feared it wouldn't be long before he started hyperventilating, and he noticed, to his discomfort, that those eyes had now landed on him. Sam was almost reminded of those horror movies where a victim woke as a newborn zombie, and he might even have laughed if the prospect didn't make him feel so ill. Bucky opened his mouth before closing it again, as if he'd forgotten how to speak, and when words did come Sam felt like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over him.

"What are my orders?"

The accent held none of the Brooklyn drawl that had slowly been creeping back into Bucky's voice the last time they'd spoken. The words were clipped, rationed, and Sam could remember hearing it only once before.

It was the Winter Soldier's voice.

Sam didn't have time to take in Steve's reaction – couldn't even begin to comprehend what the other man was feeling. For a moment it wasn't Bucky he saw lying on the bed, but Riley, and he could almost convince himself this was a nightmare before alarms started blaring and the corridors flashed with red light. Their time was up.

Knowing there was nothing else to do, Sam placed himself in the centre of Bucky's vision and put on the most authoritative voice he could muster. "Soldier, I order you to get up and come with us. If you see any men approach us, assume they are the enemy and do not listen to them, understood?"

Without even looking at the man, Sam could practically feel Steve's furious stare boring into the back of his neck, and he felt shame rise in his cheeks. They had to get out of here though, and this was the only way. He could hate himself for it later.

Bucky's face took on a blankness that didn't suit him, and he obediently sat up and got to his feet. The action seemed clumsy, leading Sam to wonder if he was in pain, but he didn't show it if he was and instead looked expectantly at his new handlers (and oh, did that make Sam want to scream until his throat tore). Steve seemed to have given in, for he placed an arm over Bucky's left shoulder and lead him forwards, but not before Sam saw a look in his eyes that was a mix between fury and utter heartbreak. Sam almost pitied anyone who had had a part in this; there'd be nothing left of them by morning if Steve had any say in the matter.

However, there was no time to dwell on that as voices broke through the blaring alarms, and Sam supported Bucky's other side before leading him out; all the while wondering if it would have been better if they had found a corpse instead.


	3. Steve

**A/N - Okay, so these chapters are getting longer and longer. I swear they started out much shorter in my head! I hope you enjoy this one. As always, any feedback is appreciated :)**

* * *

Steve couldn't shake the feeling that he was running on auto-pilot.

It had started with lost blue eyes and had only gotten worse over time; he could barely remember the desperate escape from the building besides the flashing of red lights and the shouts of guards who were promptly knocked out. Sam had been his anchor then, had stopped him from casting aside any morals and tearing his way through the hoards of people who'd dared imprison Bucky; who'd taken him away from Steve so completely and without a second thought. Sam had fought alongside him; had reminded him to keep his cool – if that were even possible – and stop the guards but not kill them, and he had driven them away from the turmoil while Steve cradled an exhausted Bucky in the back-seat, praying to anyone who would listen that his mind would stop playing tricks on him and let him wake up.

A whole week had passed and yet his mind refused to grant him that wish. The government had finally declared him 'Public Enemy Number One' (although they'd carefully avoided mentioning why) and the base had been slowly filling with new residents, but what should have been the most eventful period in the war so far passed Steve by in a funk. Nothing on the outside seemed to concern him any more; the outcome of the war seemed to have already been decided and he couldn't bring himself to care. It was only the thought of more harm coming to his friends that stopped him from backing down completely.

Steve took a deep breath and lifted his head from where it had been resting in his hands. Despite the base being busier, Bucky's room was mercifully quiet and Steve sat patiently while the other man slept. He'd been doing that a lot lately; awake, Bucky was reliant on orders and constantly itching for a mission, and in the absence of those all he had left to do was sleep. Even simple routines like eating and showering did not come naturally to him, and Sam had the unenviable job of ordering him to do both before he accidentally starved himself. The veteran hated being in that position – having to exercise control over someone when all he wanted was to let him make his own choices – but Steve imagined Sam had taken it upon himself in order to spare him the burden.

Out of instinct, he took Bucky's limp hand in his own and tried to pretend nothing had changed. He could almost manage it, were it not for the fact that his friend slept like the dead these days; so still and silent it was like he'd been programmed to make as little noise as possible, even in sleep. The night of his retrieval may still be a blur, but Steve could clearly remember the door sliding open to reveal Bucky lying pale and still, and the memory of the panic that sight had brought still made him feel sick.

Discovering the pulse should have been the end of that fear. It should have brought elation or a sense of victory, and a solemn promise to Bucky that he'd be safe now.

What a fool Steve had been for that hope.

He became so fixated on lazily tracing circles on Bucky's hand that he didn't notice at first that the man had woken, and was now staring at him with eyes so dull they seemed almost grey. Looking at them brought Steve back to a causeway; to a mask slipping off and of turning around only to see a familiar face greeting him with eyes that lacked the life they'd once held. Steve quickly brushed that memory from his mind.

"Hey," he said, trying to smile even though he knew it would be lost on Bucky. The man was quietly scanning the room, ensuring his own safety, before looking at Steve again. "How are you feeling?"

He was fumbling for words and he knew it. Talking to Bucky now seemed like tiptoeing around a minefield. Natasha had warned him that there may be trigger phrases they didn't know about, or that even casual conversation might confuse him, but Steve couldn't let himself think of Bucky that way. He was his friend, not a weapon, and he was never going to get better if Steve refused to treat him as such.

Bucky's eyebrows had furrowed and he replied with a Russian phrase that Steve vaguely recognised as 'I don't understand', before his attention was drawn away once again.

At the very least, Steve was grateful that Bucky had never been openly hostile towards them. If the government's intention was to fashion him once more into a weapon, it seemed they'd never gotten the chance to make a start on that. However, he could not be sure whether any of the Winter Soldier's instincts remained, so he didn't press Bucky for anything more and instead let him lie in silence for as long as he wanted.

After what felt like hours (and quite possibly could have been), Bucky finally turned back to him. "You aren't like the others."

It was delivered as a blunt statement and in a tone that could almost be mistaken for disinterest, but Steve thought he heard a lilt of curiosity in the man's tone. That was something, at least. "What others, Buck?"

Bucky's forehead creased in concentration, as if he was choosing his next words carefully. "My... the handlers. The ones that came before."

 _Pierce,_ Steve thought with a stab of hatred so intense, he had to remind himself that the man was long dead. _He thinks I'm like Pierce._

Steve wondered if there was any way to get Bucky to understand the difference between 'handler' and 'friend'. Had the Winter Soldier even had a notion of companionship, or had kindness been a pat on the back after a successful mission in his eyes? The file had never dwelled on that; its contents had been clinical and detached and had treated its subject like a fascinating experiment rather than a human being, so much so that the attached photograph of Bucky before the war had felt like a bad joke.

But Bucky wasn't the Winter Soldier anymore. What had been done to him didn't change that, regardless of the fact that two years of progress had been lost at the whim of cold government officials. Steve had to remember that.

"I'm not your handler," he said finally, talking slowly as if begging Bucky to understand. "I'm not going to hurt you or force you to kill anyone. Nobody's going to do that to you again." _If anyone tries then god help them._

Bucky's gaze was the strongest it had been since before he'd been taken, but Steve couldn't tell if there was comprehension there. Whether or not his friend knew he was being solemn, or whether he assumed this all to be an intricate test, Steve couldn't say. He noticed Bucky's breathing rate increasing slightly though, and when he turned to face the ceiling once more Steve thought he caught a glint of fear.

"I don't..." The confusion was back, almost panicked. He was afraid of saying the wrong thing, and the thought of that made Steve's heart sit heavy in his chest. "I don't know how to do anything else."

The voice was small and defeated and made Steve want to scream, but he remained quiet. Being openly emotional wouldn't help, and hiding how he truly felt seemed like a mastered art-form at this point. If Bucky felt his sole purpose was killing then Steve would simply have to be strong and convince him otherwise. The only problem was, it felt like the entire world was relying on him to be strong when all he wanted to do was lie down and indulge in being weak for a few precious moments.

He placed what he hoped to be a comforting hand on Bucky's cheek and dragged his attention back to him, knowing it was important that his next words sank in. "You will. I'll help you remember how to be more than what those bastards made you, I promise."

His words were met with silence and Steve noticed that those once vividly blue eyes had zoned out again, and he collapsed in his chair and rubbed at his tired eyes. Time had no place here, but even so he knew it had been days since he'd last slept. "Get some rest, Buck," he said, cringing at how strongly it resembled an order.

Steve didn't have time to say anything else before Bucky obediently turned back to the ceiling and closed his eyes, as if he were a machine that could switch off at will. The sight made Steve's grip on that limp hand tighten and it took all of his strength not to break out in sobs then and there.

Instead he remained silent, taking small comfort in Bucky's quiet, rhythmic breaths and trying to assure himself that it could be worse. Bucky was alive, they had him back. He'd been rescued before he could be manipulated into being the Soldier again, and Steve hadn't been subjected to another reunion on the battlefield.

None of that seemed to matter though. He looked over to the table decorated with old photographs and the tattered journal; objects that hinted at a livelier version of the man on the bed. Perhaps the man they represented would come back. Bucky had been close to managing it before; he'd been recovering and sharing his experiences with Sam and slowly recollecting childhood memories. His trust in Steve had been reminiscent of the friendship they'd both cherished long ago, rather than a relationship between handler and charge.

But that Bucky had been taken from Steve and had been slaughtered as surely as if his captors had put a bullet in his head, and Steve had no guarantee he would ever get him back. His sole memento of him was a journal and yet that felt more complete than the living, breathing man lying on the bed.

The sobs Steve had held back for the entire week broke forth, and he no longer cared about the possibility of waking Bucky as he clutched the man's hand to his chest and tried to pretend this was all some nightmare that would play itself out. He could really be back in those photographs; laughing with Bucky and his mother, or making promises to Peggy, or looking ill but also elated at Coney Island. He would give everything in his power to make that a reality, if only for a day. It would be better than sitting here useless, losing a war he'd never wanted to fight, and so very tired he felt he could sleep for decades.

"We should have stayed in Brooklyn," he whispered, mostly to himself, and despite his suffocating pain he found that he was smiling.

* * *

After Steve managed to compose himself to the point where his lonely breakdown seemed like a bad dream, he finally handed 'Bucky-watching' duties to Sam, who had insisted Steve get some sleep or talk to someone instead of silently torturing himself. Steve had left Bucky's side only on Sam's assurance that if things got out of hand, he could press the panic button and have at least five Avengers rushing to his aid. Despite sleep seeming like an attractive option, Steve knew he had to get out of the funk he'd let himself slip into and so he headed for the lounge instead. It was emptier than he'd imagined it to be; likely it was later than he'd thought and everyone else had retired to bed.

Over the week, Sam and Steve had been steadily joined by Natasha, Clint, Scott Lang and, eventually, Wanda Maximoff. Most had joined them after being alerted to what lengths the government were willing to go to, courtesy of Natasha. Clint had finally left his family in safety after Fury had guaranteed they could not be traced back to him, while Natasha's news had only validated Scott's increasing concerns after the government had expressed interest in taking his suit, and he'd joined them in the hope of keeping it out of dangerous hands. Apparently Hank Pym and his daughter Hope had hidden away too, but the pair were so careful that even Steve couldn't reach them.

The last to join them had been Wanda, who had up until now been neutral in her stance on the Act and had tried to ignore the building tension by continuing her training at the Avengers base. However, three nights ago she'd arrived outside having been directed there by Nat, seeming highly disturbed and apologetic before saying she had nowhere else to go. Her desperation forced Steve to remember that she too had once been experimented on by people who'd masqueraded themselves as forces of good, and he'd vowed to do everything in his power to keep her safe.

There were so many of them now that the base barely supported them all, but Steve had sacrificed his bedroom to Scott after the man had fixed Bucky's arm (Steve had been tempted to keep it unresponsive until his friend got better, but it had become clear that its dead weight caused Bucky a lot of pain around the shoulder), and it wasn't like he slept a lot anyway. Clint had claimed the makeshift hospital bed to free up space, and when Natasha slept at all it was on the couch in the lounge. They would get by for now, although he couldn't say what would happen if more people joined them.

The sole occupant of the lounge was Natasha, who was lazing back on the couch and watching some fantasy TV-show she insisted was better than constantly keeping an eye on the news. She looked up when Steve walked in and gave him a small smile, but he noticed her gaze was as icy as it had been since she'd been filled in on just what they'd discovered in Room 824.

"Hey," she said, sliding to the side of the couch to offer Steve room to sit. "Want to watch this with me? The previews promised dragons this episode."

He found himself smiling, although he was also uncomfortably aware of the fact that her supposed interest in the show was probably a mask for the fact that she felt as torn-up as he did. Natasha had given up any charade of being on the government's side the instant she learned what they had done, but the inactivity in the base had left her agitated. While he desperately missed having an informer in their opponent's midst, Steve did not blame her in the slightest for her desertion. She'd wanted to work for people who set out to do good in order to atone for her past in The Red Room, only to find that those people were comprised of Hydra and government officials who were not above the brainwashing tactics she'd so desperately run from.

"I'll watch the repeats," he replied, hoping he sounded relatively nonchalant. It was hard to come off as uncaring when everyone around him knew how deeply he'd been hurt. "Look, Natasha. Can I ask for a favour?"

She turned away from the television screen with a raised eyebrow, but nodded despite her curiosity. "Within reason."

Steve braced himself, before continuing. "You know we've had total radio-silence since we... since last week. We're relying on the news for updates but we both know that's not much help." He took a breath, already guessing what Nat's response to his request would be. "I need you to try to get in touch with Tony, or Rhodes if you can't reach him. I need to find out what's happening on their end."

Natasha scoffed and looked back to the television before responding with a blunt – almost dangerous - "No."

Steve didn't blame her, but he had no time to dwell on that. "Natasha, I'm angry too, and I don't know what to think any more than you do. But Tony helped us. I know he promised he'd do what he could to protect Bucky, but it's like you said before. His influence is waning. If he had the power to stop what his superiors were planning then maybe things would be different." Steve could only hope so. He didn't want to consider the possibility that, after all of his promises, Stark had gone along with wiping Bucky's memories. "He risked everything to tell us where Bucky was. He's the reason we found him. So we have to at least consider what's happened to him since. Because if I'm right, and he has no power anymore where the Act's concerned, then we desperately need to know that."

Natasha considered it for a moment, her expression giving nothing away. Steve's request would give her something to do, and he knew she'd been desperate for that opportunity all week, but even the mere thought of Tony and the government left a bad taste in their mouths that he suspected would make it difficult to talk to the man. Regardless of what Stark may or may not have done in order to help, Steve knew that even he had a hard time trying to separate the man from what the people he worked for had done.

"I can head out in the morning," Natasha said finally, although she didn't particularly seem happy about it. "And it'll be Rhodes I talk to, not Stark. But I'll do it."

"Thank you." Steve tried to smile, but with that request out of the way he was very aware that he now had no idea what to do with himself. He must have looked hilariously lost, as Natasha took his hand in hers and gave it a squeeze before scooting over and resting her head on his shoulder.

"Come on," she said, her apprehension at the task ahead of her seemingly gone. "Let's just switch our brains off and watch some dragons."

Steve laughed for the first time he could remember in weeks and leaned back on the couch, while on the screen the creature in question made quick work of setting a city ablaze.

* * *

For the next few weeks, the outside world experienced nothing but calm and the news had little to report other than the fact that Captain America and his associates were still 'at large', and that Tony Stark had been spending more time holed up in his tower. The Superhuman Registration Act was finally close to passing, but the actions of Brock Rumlow that had instigated its creation was already fading from public consciousness. Tension continued to simmer but the public paid little attention, and the world kept on turning as it was expected to.

In the base, none of those facts seemed to matter anymore. Natasha had long since returned from an impromptu meeting with James Rhodes, and had fed back the information she received with slightly less animosity at the mention of Stark.

Apparently, the man had fought tooth and nail in favour of giving Bucky another chance after he'd attempted to escape, but his superiors were having none of it. They'd been waiting for an excuse to use the ex-Winter Soldier for their own means from the minute he'd been taken in, and an ill-fated escape attempt, to them, had seemed the perfect excuse to take drastic action.

Stark's protests, along with a supposed failed attempt to save Bucky mid-procedure, had left him suspended from any decision-making concerning the Act and the only reason he remained a public representative of it was because the government knew he was the only thing keeping public opinion on their side, and they'd threatened to take Stark's suits if he refused to continue acting his part.

Despite everything, Steve felt a surge of gratitude towards the man, although he knew there was no way to express that. As for Rhodes, Natasha had trusted his judgement enough to provide him with a disposable phone which he could use, if he wished, to contact them and pass along information. He too had been removed from any say in the government's plans, but he still visited Tony often enough that his input could prove valuable.

However, very little news had come through in the four weeks since Nat's return, besides the fact that they were still technically being hunted but little progress had been made in locating them. The time in the base had been quiet, almost normal, except that leaving was usually too dangerous to risk. Steve was thankful for that much.

Slowly but surely, Bucky had started to become more comfortable walking around the base, although he preferred having either Steve or Sam by his side at all times. He didn't interact with any of the other residents at first – and they'd had the good grace to leave him in peace – until Wanda had volunteered to help him regain some of his memories using her skills. At first Steve had been reluctant; he was too familiar with her mind-tricks being a source of pain and a small part of him balked at any notion of Bucky's mind being manipulated.

However, Steve had shared the idea with Bucky and, to his surprise, the man had agreed. Although he hadn't spoken to her, Steve had noticed that Bucky was visibly more comfortable around Wanda than any of the other members of the base, and wondered if her Eastern European background and similar past experiences made her a more familiar presence to him than men who could shrink to the size of ants or hit a target with an arrow with their eyes closed. Either way, Bucky didn't complain when Wanda came to his room one day and explained exactly how she wanted to help.

It turned out that trying to uncover deeply buried memories was far more difficult and complicated than simply creating an illusion. Unfazed by this however, Wanda had started, not by trying to bring back full-blown recollections, but by trying to bring forth sensations associated with old memories, such as smells or sounds. Over time, Bucky started to remember parts of songs he had enjoyed in his childhood, or the smell of hot Brooklyn streets in summer, or the feeling of mud beneath his fingernails as he camped with the Howling Commandos. Rarely would these be fleshed out memories, but sometimes his dreams would put bits and pieces together and half-remembered sensations would become something more than that. Soon enough, he was starting to act less like a weapon expecting orders and more like he was aware that he was a person.

On one occasion, Wanda had asked Steve if there was a memory in particular he thought would help, and Steve had been reminded of himself and Bucky enjoying his mother's home-made broth not long after Steve had recovered from yet another bout of flu. After telling her this, he left her to it (he'd supervised earlier sessions, but as Bucky had never once lashed out he now trusted her on her own) and set about wasting an afternoon preparing an inferior version of his mother's broth and serving it to Bucky when he emerged from his room. His friend had said nothing, but he'd wolfed down the meal with more enthusiasm than he'd expressed before, and from that point on Bucky seemed to regard Steve with a greater sense of familiarity.

It didn't always work as well as Steve would have liked though. Out of foolish impatience, he had once asked Wanda if she could try bringing back more detailed memories. However, when she'd made an attempt, Bucky's eyes had rolled back into his head and he'd been sent into a seizure so severe it left him unconscious for two days.

Wanda had been frantically apologetic after that, no matter how often Steve tried to assure her it wasn't her fault. As he'd waited by his friend's bedside for those two days, unable to sleep and certain he'd harmed Bucky beyond repair, Steve promised himself that he wouldn't interfere ever again and instead let Wanda continue her work at a pace she was comfortable with.

Everyone else in the base tried to make a routine for themselves as well. Scott and Clint had quickly bonded over the shared experience of balancing mad heroics with family life, and often trained together in one of the larger bedrooms, which had been cleared especially for them. Sam and Steve used Fury's old computers to glean what information they could from news networks all around the world, along with more private channels that SHIELD had hacked into years back. Natasha would often sneak out in all manner of disguises and wander around the city, listening to private conversations to get the public's view of current events, and occasionally meeting with Rhodes when the man had a few moments of freedom. Each meeting brought little news, besides the fact that Stark barely spoke to his superiors anymore and the government had the detestable air of a bully who'd won a fight, but it was better than nothing.

Steve couldn't shake the feeling that they were sitting on a time-bomb and that these moments of peace were building to something chaotic, but he had long since lost the ability to care. For now his friends were safe, if not exactly free, and that was comfort enough.

* * *

One evening, five weeks after his recovery from Room 824, Bucky approached Steve of his own accord. Steve was surprised to see his friend wandering into the lounge alone, casting a nervous glance at Natasha on the couch before relaxing slightly when she paid him no mind. Before, Bucky would usually have preferred to be in the company of Sam, Wanda or Steve himself, and Steve could only hope that this change was a sign of his growing independence.

It was only when Bucky got close to him that Steve saw he was clutching something in his hands, and he passed it over without a word. Looking down, Steve saw it was one of the photographs from Bucky's room; an image of them both as teenagers, smiling broadly with the Cyclone in the background. Steve looked embarrassingly tiny next to Bucky even then, but the image remained one of his favourites.

"I remember this," Bucky said, and Steve looked up to find he had a questioning look on his face despite the conviction in his words. "I remember... you were sick."

Steve laughed and his chest suddenly felt lighter than it had done in years. "Yeah, Buck. You promised me the ride would be good fun, and I ended up throwing up all over you." At the time Steve could remember being humiliated, but Bucky hadn't minded and had blamed himself for 'bein' a jerk'. Now it was one of his happier memories.

"It was summer," Bucky continued, his eyebrows furrowing as if the memories were slipping away from him like water through cupped hands. "Your mother, she forced us to go out and do something. I think... I don't remember-"

"It's alright," Steve interrupted before Bucky could grow more panicked. It was natural that the memory wouldn't be complete yet – it could take years before all of his memories came back – but this was more progress than Steve could have hoped for. "More than alright. This is great, Bucky, really great."

He resisted the urge to reach out for a hug and gave Bucky's shoulder a light squeeze instead. The man looked up at him with what could have been the ghost of a smile, before taking the photo back and making his way to his room. Steve made a mental note to buy Wanda a car or a house or anything else he could think of by way of thanks, before he collapsed on the couch beside Natasha, who greeted him with a knowing smile and increased the volume on the TV. Steve, in all his excitement, hadn't even noticed she'd lowered it in the first place.

* * *

The chaos Steve had expected came sooner than he'd have liked.

The day started off as standard in terms of underground-base living. Steve had woken after a meagre three hours of sleep, spent an hour on the treadmill in lieu of an early morning run and had looked up the news on the internet with his morning coffee at his side, scouring headlines that might as well have read 'Nothing Happened, Maybe Next Time'. Sam was already up and about, teasing Clint with yet another bird-joke, and Natasha and Scott were providing a loud, rather rude, commentary to a TV show about overly rich people. It was one of those moments where Steve could almost pretend they were normal adults and that the world hadn't rested solely on their shoulders on at least two occasions.

Natasha had barely finished her impression of a teenage boy, crying because he got the wrong car for his birthday, when the atmosphere was broken by the shrill ringing of a phone.

Almost simultaneously, the joking and chatter stopped and all heads turned towards the black phone on the far wall, which up until that point had never made a sound. Steve could remember Fury talking about it; it should only ring if he were the one making the call, and that was never going to happen as he would be too busy underground himself. Other instances may include a nuclear war, aliens emerging from the skies, or the death of several world leaders.

At the end of the day, Steve had gotten the message. The phone would never ring.

And yet, there it was, as shrill as the alarms in Bell's Building and twice as ominous. Steve looked over to Natasha, who had lost all trace of humour on her face, and mouthed 'what do we do?' as if he were afraid the caller would hear him.

Natasha shrugged, before responding in a low whisper. "The phone's untraceable. Assuming the caller's not friendly, if a number is all they have then there's still no leverage."

"And what if they have more than that?" As he spoke, the ringing stopped for a blessed few seconds before picking up again.

"Then we're dead anyway."

The decision made for him, Steve got up and wandered over to the phone, hesitating only for a second before lifting it to his ear. He didn't have the chance to speak before a cold male voice said, "Put me on speaker."

Tempted to ignore him out of spite, but knowing the others would want – and probably need – to hear, he did as he was told and waited. He didn't dare say a word, not yet.

The voice continued, booming from hidden speakers all over the lounge and possibly beyond; his tone almost bored. "You've been careless, Steven Rogers. Thinking you could protect your little band of freaks all on your own." The voice was so patronising that Steve felt the urge to punch something, but he was unwilling to give its owner that satisfaction. "And some of your freaks have been seen. We've found you."

"He's bluffing," Steve heard Clint whisper behind him, although the man didn't sound overly convinced by his own words. "All he has is a phone number. We'd be arrested already if they knew where we were."

Steve didn't have the time to hope that he was right, before they were met with a response. "I must admit, it's a quaint location you've chosen. Right underneath an old soda factory-turned-warehouse in D.C. Cosy."

"Shit."

Steve silently shared Clint's sentiment. He tried to think, all too aware that everyone else in the room had frozen. The description of their location was almost vague enough to be a bluff, but combined with the fact that this man had a number he definitely shouldn't have, Steve didn't dare hope believe that. He took a breath and tried to sound authoritative when he finally spoke. "What do you want?"

A breathy laugh sounded through the speakers. "To give you a choice, Captain. Tomorrow morning, at ten o'clock, you can meet us outside The White House alone and surrender. Or... well, I guess we can find out if your friends scream as prettily as dear old Barnes."

Anger surged, white hot, in Steve's veins and his heart was beating so rapidly in his chest it felt like it was trying to escape from its confines. This man had been among those who hurt Bucky; wanted to do the same to everyone he cared about. In that moment, Steve couldn't think of anyone he hated more.

"Think on it. You'll be left alone until the allotted time, but do be aware that you're being watched, so no fancy escapes please," the voice continued, and Steve could practically feel the man smirking at the phone. "I'll see you tomorrow."

With that, there was a click and the dial tone reverberated around the room. Steve quickly replaced the phone on the wall and, in the resulting silence, was very aware of his ragged breaths. Everyone behind him was as silent as he was, but he couldn't bring himself to look at them. He had promised himself, over and over, that he would protect them and now they were in immediate danger because they'd chosen to follow him.

Sam was the first to speak, however he'd barely uttered a careful, "Steve?" before a thundering crash sounded from one of the bedrooms and Steve felt his heart stutter in his chest. _Bucky._

Finally able to move, he practically ran in the direction of the noise, relieved to find that nobody followed, and threw himself through the door to Bucky's bedroom. The place was in turmoil; the wall had been caved in to such an extent that the next room was exposed, and rubble had spilled onto the floor. Lying among it in a heap was Bucky, and Wanda was struggling to stand from beside the bed, trembling and looking up at Steve in fear.

"What happened?" he asked, torn between running over to Bucky and helping her up, and ending up frozen doing neither. Wanda finally got to her feet but clutched at her head, wincing.

"I don't know, I..." She took a breath and looked over to where Bucky was now stirring. "It was the voice. The moment he heard it everything went cold and..." she flinched, still in obvious pain though Steve could see no wound. "I thought my head was going to explode. I couldn't think; he just lashed out and I reacted, I'm sorry."

Steve rushed over to her and looked into her eyes as calmly as he could. "It's not your fault. He had a flashback; you had to protect yourself." Looking back at Bucky showed him that the man was slowly getting to his feet himself, seemingly unharmed. "Go to the lounge. Tell them what's happened, but make sure no-one comes in here, understand?"

Wanda gathered herself and nodded before obeying. When they were alone, Steve turned to Bucky, only to find the man silently scanning him with dull eyes that had become all-too familiar of late. His stance was guarded, ready to fight, and it seemed that even Wanda's magic had not been enough to break his age-old conditioning. "Bucky, it's Steve. I'm your friend. You're alright, you're safe." _And_ _i_ _sn't that the biggest lie of all?_

Bucky didn't seem to take any of it in. Instead he lunged at Steve, and there was barely time to react before an imposing metal arm was thrust in his direction. Steve swerved out of the way but couldn't bring himself to attack, and at the lack of opposition Bucky turned and took aim once more. As Steve ducked again, he saw Bucky's flesh hand reach for something in his pocket, and he had barely evaded the prosthetic before he felt something slash at his arm.

He staggered backwards and looked down to see blood oozing from a shallow wound. Bucky stalked towards him again, his face expressionless but his eyes betraying a slight annoyance at the length of time this 'mission' was taking, and Steve could see the kitchen knife held in his right hand. It had probably been taken ages ago out of a survival instinct and wasn't particularly threatening, but it still meant that Bucky was armed and in his confused state that made him extremely dangerous.

Acting on impulse, Steve ran towards his friend and dodged the swerving blade at the last second, sliding in behind Bucky and wrapping his arms around his chest before throwing himself to the ground, taking Bucky with him. They landed with a sickening thud and Steve felt a flash of pain but ignored it, and he brought his crushing grip up to Bucky's neck. His mind brought him back to the helicarrier – memories he had never wanted to visit again – and he tightened his grip as much as he dared while Bucky flailed weakly. "Drop the knife, Buck. Please, just drop it."

He was breathless himself, the feeling exacerbated by the weight on his chest, but Bucky's grip on the blade didn't waver. He tried to aim behind himself and force Steve to let go, but the angle was too awkward. Fighting the urge to sob, Steve tightened his grip further until the movements of the man in his arms became clumsy, and then stilled as Bucky's eyes slipped shut. The knife slipped from his grasp and Steve kicked it away before letting go of Bucky and placing his hands on the man's chest instead, making sure it still rose and fell.

Instead of getting up like he probably should, Steve remained where he lay, taking deep breaths and staring at the ceiling with tears burning in his eyes. He couldn't shed them, couldn't appear weak, not now. He wanted to though. He wanted to curl up and sob and never face the world again, but his wants didn't matter anymore and they would help no-one. Especially not those he cared about.

He looked down at Bucky who, despite harbouring the Winter Soldier's coldness barely seconds before, seemed almost peaceful in his arms. Steve would have given anything to make that last; to have just another week of Bucky regaining his memories and becoming more familiar with him. And yet, he knew he had to surrender tomorrow. The choice had been made for him the second his friends had been threatened, and he knew that if he didn't comply, he would lose Bucky all over again. He had failed him too many times before to let that happen.

Steve would have to get up soon. He would need to face his friends and make plans. He would need to figure out what he would say when he arrived at The White House tomorrow and try to come up with terms that ensured his friends were protected or pardoned. He would need to say goodbye to Bucky with the very real possibility that he would never see him again, because he could not risk letting him fall into enemy hands.

That could all wait. For now he settled for lying in the silent ruins of the room, cradling Bucky in his arms and whispering a constant mantra of "I'm sorry" in the hopes that he would hear.

* * *

The city streets were quieter than Steve would have expected, given the early hour.

It was as if they'd been cleared, although Steve could see no sign that that was the case, and parking the SUV in an abandoned lot had proved easier than it should have done. He walked alone, shield gripped tightly in his hands and his uniform feeling alien against his skin after all these months of not donning it. Casual clothes would have been preferable, if only to blend in. However, he knew it was not Steve Rogers the government wanted to be seen surrendering but Captain America; the nation's old sweetheart whose very title would soon be dragged through the mud.

At the very least, it was nice to see the sun and clear blue skies again, and to feel a light breeze brush against his face. He hadn't realised just how many small comforts the base had denied him.

And he was not truly alone. Despite his many protests, everyone in the base had insisted on coming with him – to keep watch if nothing else. Sam in particular had told him to fuck off at the mere suggestion of him staying at the base. Having such eccentric company had made sneaking into the garage beside the warehouse an interesting affair, and Steve was suddenly grateful for the SUV's tinted windows, but it had been worth the difficulties to know his friends had his back.

Only Wanda had stayed, albeit reluctantly, after Steve had reminded her that Bucky was still weak and that there was no-one better to act as his protector in his absence. If things got horribly out of hand, she'd promised to do everything in her power to get them both to safety, and Steve had left her in the hope that that would never become a necessity.

As he approached the gates and saw the sprawling lawn leading to The White House, he noticed with mild amusement that his opponents had gone all-out in terms of defence. At least forty armed guards surrounded a small gathering of men-in-suits, and among them stood the familiar metallic figures of Iron Man and War Machine. As if that weren't enough, they'd even brought along a tank.

Steve was relieved to find there were no cameras or film-crews gathered about; this would not be immediate news at least. However, he could imagine several reporters lurking in the surrounding buildings, watching every detail in order to write up the biggest scoop of their careers. They wouldn't be alone, he knew; Sam was waiting on the roof of one of the buildings, while the others were keeping watch in unseen corners. Hidden behind one of the many windows looking down on them, Clint would have an arrow notched and ready to strike at the slightest hint of foul play.

Sam also had an earpiece and mic while Steve himself wore the piece that connected to it, a device so small it fit perfectly into his ear and was invisible unless one was specifically looking for it. He could not reply to anything Sam said but he could hear his friend's reports and, currently, his feeble attempts at reassurance, and Steve would be lying if he said it didn't make him feel far more comfortable with the situation.

When he was barely feet away from what seemed to be the superior of the government officials – a tall, thin man with grey eyes so light they seemed empty – an urgent shout of 'Freeze!' sounded from the guards and Steve thought it best to obey. He wished he could see Tony's face, if only to judge what the other man made of this farce, but he was greeted by the cold stare of the suit's faceplate instead.

"I see you got a little carried away," Steve said finally, motioning to the tank in an attempt to sound uncaring. It helped that the situation felt truly ridiculous, but there were real stakes involved that stopped him from admitting that much. The man with the pale eyes gave him a look that may have been a sneer, but his cold expression was so unflinching it was difficult to tell.

"We've seen what you're capable of, Rogers," he said, and any humour melted away as Steve realised he was being confronted by their mystery caller. His grip on the shield tightened. "We felt it would be smarter to have protection, you understand."

Had they expected Steve to attack them unprovoked in broad daylight? It seemed his opponents didn't know him at all. He took comfort from that, at least.

"You wanted my surrender, and you can have it," Steve started, having come to terms with these words in the late hours of last night. "But I have conditions."

If the man was surprised at that, he didn't show it. Steve wondered what it would take to get him to openly react to anything.

"And we will hear them. I'm sure we can come up with a suitable arrangement and put this 'war' of yours behind us." The sneer seemed to widen, and Steve noticed that the man's lips were also pale, almost to the point of being as white as his skin. He wondered if his work ever allowed him to see sunlight. "Surrender your shield and any other weapons you may have on your person. Then we can talk somewhere more private."

Steve hesitated for only a second, before starting to obey. The shield had barely brushed the tarmac however, when that vile voice spoke up again. "And do tell your friends to stop hiding if you want them to live."

The words had barely sunk in before Steve could hear Sam's agitated voice in his ear. "Shit, Steve, they've followed me to the roof."

Far above him, Steve could hear ringing gunfire and he looked up in panic, only to see Sam taking flight and firing back before swooping out of the way. The guards on the ground all aimed their weapons simultaneously, as if like clockwork, and Steve barely had the time to react and throw his shield towards the group before one of Clint's arrows fired towards them. It landed on the ground, gave a small beep, and in an instant there was a flash of white light that had everyone on the ground blinded. Steve quickly averted his gaze and backed away as far as he could, finally reassured when Sam's voice told him he'd gotten away safely.

He didn't have time to celebrate, however. If the guards had located Sam, chances were they were onto everyone else, and sure enough he started to hear gunfire come from the nearby buildings. A second-floor window smashed for seemingly no reason, until Scott appeared on the ground as if out of nowhere, nodding to Steve before shrinking again. Natasha shot through her window and used one of the grappling hooks she always kept on her person to lower herself safely to the ground.

The armed guards before them seemed to have gotten over their confusion and the air had cleared almost to normal, meaning they were now fair game. Steve quickly raised his shield against a panicked guard's fire before throwing it at the man and knocking him out. He quickly picked up his discarded gun and shot at the leg of a man who had Natasha in his sights, while she took out two guards of her own.

In the chaos, Steve noticed with a pang of fear that Iron Man and War Machine were gone, and he saw the tank aiming in the direction of Clint's hideout, where the man was continually firing arrows. It's target changed hurriedly however as Sam reappeared, but the man was so fast a fixed shot was impossible, and when it did finally fire it ended up taking a chunk out of the building immediately behind Sam instead. Steve hoped someone had had the foresight to evacuate the area of civilians, but the resulting screams made such hopes fruitless.

While everyone on their side were trying desperately to use non-lethal attacks only, their opponents had no such courtesy. The guards that remained were firing indiscriminately as if trying to wipe them all out, and he noticed that the government officials had backed away but were still looking on with interest. Steve turned just in time to see a gun aimed in his direction, but before he could throw his shield the guard gave a yelp and was jerked backwards by some invisible force. Scott reappeared again, gave Steve a thumbs up that elicited a genuine smile, and shrank down again.

One of the guards was trying to set up a perfect shot to Clint's hideout, but Natasha had sneaked up behind them and she delivered a jolt of electricity that had him twitching madly before falling to the ground. Steve turned to face the tank, only to feel his heart in his throat when he saw it's turret was aimed in his direction. Before he could move, however, he felt a sense of weightlessness as he was lifted from the ground. He could hear Sam grunting in the air and the tank missile slammed into a parked car, before he was dropped, laughing as he heard his friend mutter something about 'damn big breakfasts'.

Before the tank could do anymore damage, it went up in flames itself courtesy of one of Clint's more dangerous arrows. Steve barely had time to celebrate before he heard Sam swear loudly through his earpiece, and he looked up to see that one of his wings had been obliterated by a weapon that could only have come from one of the Iron Man suits. Sam landed out of sight, and for a few heart-stopping moments, Steve heard nothing. Finally, he heard a strained, "I'm alright," followed by a grunt and a sharp hiss. "Shit, no I'm not alright. Think my leg's broken."

Steve desperately wished he had the means to reply. A few guards remained, including those that had clambered from the smoking tank, but he'd hoped that Stark and Rhodes would go easy on them. With a jolt, he remembered that they were likely being placed on the spotlight; they had no more choice in this fight than he did.

It was with that thought that he felt something crash into his side and he landed on the windscreen of a car, winded. He looked up to see the familiar red and gold of the Iron Man suit and, to his surprise, Stark's exposed face. The man looked as drained as Steve felt, and made no other move to attack, but Steve found himself throwing his shield in his direction anyway. It slammed into the suit and Stark stumbled backwards, landing shakily on his feet while Steve used the opportunity to get back up and catch his weapon as it returned to him.

He barely had time to react before the suit's fist swung in his direction, and he couldn't move in time; it clipped his jaw and his entire face seemed awash with pain. Nothing seemed to be broken though, so he grit his teeth and took aim again, this time using the distraction of the shield's attack as a means to get as far away as he could. He found it odd that, for all the suit's weaponry, Tony made no attempt to use any of it, and out of the corner of his eye Steve thought he saw a guard set on Natasha go down as a result of War Machine, who was circling the chaos in the air.

Steve had no time to dwell on any of that though. Catching his shield, he used Stark's split-second hesitation to slam into the suit with his entire being and bring it to the ground. The force of the impact seemed to make every bone in his body shudder, but he was able to land on top of Stark and brought down a clumsy punch onto his face. Tony barely reacted and only made awkward attempts to push Steve off of him, even though he could probably manage it with a bullet in the gut. Steve's breath caught in his throat when he realised that neither of them really cared about this fight; they were like puppets dangling on strings at this point, making a show for their masters. Steve was sick of it.

He looked up to see the carnage around him. Buildings had sustained damage and the wrecks of cars were aflame on the streets. Slumped, unconscious bodies of guards were spread out everywhere, but for every one that went down two more seemed to replace them. His friends were still fighting but they seemed drained, and the only person who truly looked happy was the pale man who had taken such joy in taunting them. Sam had been dragged back into the fray by two guards and was visibly limping, but only his shuddering breaths indicated that he was in pain. At the end of the street, small groups of people were watching in horror and a child who must have come outside for a curious look was crouched behind a car, crying hysterically.

"Stop!"

The word broke free from Steve's lips before he'd even thought to say it, and he had to repeat himself a few times before his opponents' self-appointed leader raised his hand and repeated the order. Steve noticed Tony throw him a questioning glance, one that might have been taken for fearful, but he said nothing. He walked away from the man, leaving him to pick himself up from the ground, and went to face the government official who had stepped forward. "You brought me here to surrender. I'll do it. Whatever you want of me, I'll do it." The man studied him curiously and Steve felt as if his every action was being judged. He made a stubborn effort to hide the aching in his bones. "But this stops. You call off your guards, you let my friends go and you make no attempt to go after them. That's all I ask."

He could hear Sam's frantic shout of "Steve, no!" but he could not let that concern him. Sam could have died when he fell, could still die if this fight was forced to continue, and Steve knew he couldn't lose anyone else.

The tall man considered this a moment, seemingly enjoying the situation. "And if we refuse?"

Steve simply shrugged. "Then we keep fighting. And you have to make a speech to the public explaining why you continued to put innocent civilians in danger when you had another option."

If possible, the man seemed to become even paler. Steve noticed, to his relief, that some of the guards had lowered their guns and were looking expectantly at their boss for confirmation on what they should do next. After what felt like an eternity, the man nodded and turned to the men in his charge. "Take Captain Rogers into custody immediately. As for the others, let them go for now." Steve felt almost like he was deflating with relief. "We'll discuss them further, Rogers, but for now they can go."

Three guards were now heading in his direction, and to show he intended to be compliant, he lowered his shield. A hand grabbed his shoulder and he turned to see Sam, trembling slightly in pain but fixing Steve with the sternest gaze he could muster.

"You shouldn't have to do this," he said, almost pleading. "Not for us. It's not worth it."

"I can't let anyone else get hurt, Sam," Steve replied, lowering his voice to ensure that none of their enemies could hear. "Promise me you'll look after the others. Make sure they're safe. And Bucky... please, keep him safe too."

His chest ached at the torn expression on Sam's face, as if his friend was slowly becoming aware of the burden Steve was placing on his shoulders. However, Sam was loyal to a fault, and the grip on his shoulder tightened as he gave a small nod. "I promise."

That was all that Steve needed to hear. He let the guards place him in handcuffs and search him briefly for weapons, and watched as his friends were reluctantly lead away. His earpiece hadn't been located yet, and it was a small comfort to know that if the conditions of his offer were violated in any way, he would be able to hear and protest. He caught Stark's attention, and the man looked as visibly torn-up as Sam had, but Steve could deal with that later. He imagined they'd have time to talk before long.

As he was lead away, unarmed and useless, he found to his surprise that his chest felt lighter than it had done in a while and the panic and fear he'd expected to plague him didn't come. Perhaps everything would sink in later, as he sat alone in a bare cell, but for now he felt almost content.

After all. Steve may not have won but, at the very least, the war was over.


	4. Tony

Shedding the suit brought a weightlessness that nearly had Tony crashing onto the couch. He was suddenly very grateful he was alone in the suite his superiors had prepared for him; away from prying eyes who would see only a trembling man with clothes clinging to him by sweat. The fight had been public enough, but he'd been safely concealed inside his armour and his true feelings had been hidden behind an expressionless mask. Now he felt hopelessly bare, and vulnerable besides. He would have to shed that too, soon enough.

The temptation to take a shower and wash away the sweat and the blood from his face was almost overwhelming, but instead he lowered himself onto the couch and let himself take a few moments to breathe. Today should not have gone like this. His job had been to stand as a still and imposing guard; to watch over the proceedings and give the public the impression that everything was running smoothly. Tony hadn't been told about the extra guards scouting out Steve's friends, nor of any orders to attack them if they were found. He'd been thrust into the fight as surely as Steve had, and his victory – if it could even be called that – had left a sour taste in his mouth.

When his breathing had returned to normal and the shaking in his hands had become less severe, Tony pulled off his shirt and made his way over to the shower. He would need to brush up nicely – this event would bring a lot of publicity – and he could not do that if he let himself be exposed as a wreck. The spot on his face where Steve had punched him still throbbed and his body ached from being slammed to the ground, but otherwise he'd managed to escape relatively unscathed. Hiding his war-wounds would be easy enough. The rest could be expressed through nightmares.

As the warm water trickled onto his skin, Tony finally allowed the fact that the fight was over to sink in. Steve had surrendered and could be explaining his terms right now. The Act was almost certainly going to pass, which would hopefully do more good than harm in the future, and Tony would no longer have to feign enthusiasm about it at one press conference after another. He was free, but the sense of joy that should have accompanied that fact didn't come. Instead he was left to wonder; had his actions truly been the right thing to do, did he even still care about the Act?

He certainly had at first, when things had been simpler. The world was still reeling from the devastation Ultron had brought, and Tony felt he owed the people of Sokovia any penance he could give them. Crossbones' unprovoked attack on civilians had showcased what power could do in the hands of those willing to abuse it, and an Act to identify such individuals before they could do harm should have been enough to put the public's fears to rest.

However, it had all been handled by the wrong people; people who would sooner abuse those who were registered than work with them, and who hunted down anyone who had the gall to oppose them. People that Tony struggled day and night to keep in line while still being an ally to their cause, until any semblance of power had been stripped from him. People who had forced him to watch as Barnes was tortured and had ordered kill-hits on his friends.

And by the time their influence took over, it was too late to back down. The public saw his backing of the Act as a sign that they could still trust him and that what he had created in Ultron was not irredeemable. Any notion of him switching sides would only make matters worse.

The situation had been allowed to slip into a private war. Despite the fact that Tony had started out with good intentions, the Act had turned into a means to hurt and control and punish, and any intentions he may have had in the beginning had been left buried in the dirt.

He remembered that Ultron had also come about due to good intentions, and he could have laughed at the absurdity of it all. Instead he simply felt a sharp pain in his knuckles and looked down to see he'd punched the wall.

After he'd showered and changed into something smarter – a plain white shirt and black trousers – he barely had time to consider what would happen now before his phone started ringing on his desk. It was times like these that he missed JARVIS politely informing him of who was trying to get his attention. Vision was a close imitation, but not close enough, and they barely interacted these days anyway. Tony had made attempts at recreating JARVIS, if only to openly vent to someone without judgement, but the time to do so had been scarce and little progress had been made.

He scooped up his phone to find 'John Nelson' flashing across the screen, and his blood turned cold at the thought of that pale fucker with the soulless eyes and slicked-back hair. The man was cold and logical, which certainly made him good at his job, but Tony didn't doubt that if the man hadn't found work with some of the government's more secretive departments, he'd have made for a formidable supervillain. Just the mere thought brought him back to the cold rooms deep below Bell's Building and he felt nausea stir in his gut.

Answering the call, he barely managed a gruff "'Ello?" before that detestable voice sounded, seeming as disinterested as usual.

"Meet us at Bell's Building at three o'clock sharp. You'll find us on floor 15, room 1503. I'm sure you're familiar with that location." Tony barely had time to utter an affirmation before the man went on. "Rogers is asking for you. He insists on being stubborn until you arrive."

With that, the call ended before Tony had even let the words sink in. It made sense that Steve would want to confront him directly, although the fact that the request had come so soon was surprising. A glance at his phone told him it was already half past one – the fight had barely ended two hours ago.

Tony suddenly found himself feeling apprehensive. The last time he and Steve had spoken face-to-face it had ended in a fistfight, and that was before everything had descended into hell.

It would not do to refuse, however, so he threw on the smartest jacket he owned and left the room without a second thought. His suite was located on the upper floors of another government facility, although this one made no attempt to masquerade as an office block. The work that went on here was pretty standard and nothing compared to the shady goings-on that resided within Bell's' walls. Tony took the stairs in order to waste time, and ignored the pointed glances thrown his way by guards and office-workers, before wandering onto the sleek atrium with its marble walls and receptionists sporting fake smiles. He returned one of his own before walking out the door, finding a black car already waiting for him.

The ride passed in a blur, such was Tony's exhaustion, and he'd barely started to rest his eyes before he was being shaken awake by his escort. He startled awake, tried to gather himself when he remembered where he was, and threw the driver a generous tip before making his way into the building. He barely concealed a smirk when he saw that there were still planks of wood boarding up a shield-sized hole in those large windows. When he'd passed that note onto Steve he hadn't expected to be back here so soon.

The stairs were as cramped as they'd been on those first few visits, opening onto loud office spaces on the lower floors before exposing dark corridors as he climbed higher and higher. Floor 15 was slightly brighter, with fully-functioning lights, but it was also uncomfortably familiar. Tony didn't have time to dwell on that before he was met outside the assigned room by Nelson, who looked even more ghostly in the white light. The man smiled when he saw Tony approach and held out his hand for him to shake, which he did only to be polite. Nelson's hands felt almost skeletal in his own and Tony suppressed the urge to shudder.

"It's a good day, Stark," the man said, his voice conveying something which was probably supposed to be excitement, but it was hard to tell. "I expect you'll be satisfied that the fight is at an end and we can finally move on?"

Now Tony could tell why the smile unnerved him and the voice seemed to be concealing something deeper. He was being tested, after his botched attempt to rush forward and stop the machine that had burned the memories out of Barnes's head. If he played his part and feigned happiness over their victory, then perhaps that action could be put down as a fluke – a moment of conscience overtaking logic. Somehow he doubted Nelson would ever truly trust him after that incident, but a good public image would be withheld.

So, while every instinct in his body screamed at him to do otherwise, he smiled back and adorned the persona he'd perfected for the cameras long ago. "Absolutely. I could finally do with a good night's sleep." It was a lame answer, but one that seemed to suffice, and he felt a surge of relief as his hand was finally freed.

"Now, Rogers wishes to speak with you alone," Nelson said, his mouth curling in distaste around the man's name. Tony forced himself not to react. "Obviously we'll be watching – we must be careful, you see – but he's handcuffed to the table so it should be safe enough to heed his wishes. If he makes any unwise moves we'll come to your aid immediately."

With that, he turned a key in the lock and forced open the door with a splayed hand, never once looking away from Tony's face. "You may go in," he said dismissively, and Tony obeyed without a second thought, too eager to be out of the man's presence. The sight of the room made him freeze however; with its two-way mirror and table placed in the centre of the room, he knew this was the same room in which he'd spoken to Barnes in the days where his mind was still whole.

Sitting in Barnes's place was an exhausted-looking Steve, who had rested his head in his free hand and barely moved at seeing Tony enter. The man had changed into a plain white shirt and jeans, but a bruise blossoming on his jaw and several cuts snaking up his arm destroyed any mirage of normality. Tony awkwardly took a seat opposite Steve, feeling the stares of his superiors burn at the back of his neck, while the other man greeted him with a slight nod.

"We really have to stop meeting like this, Capsicle," he said finally, and was rewarded by a small smile from Steve.

"That's the plan," the man replied, finally lifting his head from his hand and meeting Tony head-on. There didn't seem to be any aggression in his stance, but the fact that this was very much an interrogation ruined any possibility of them acting like friends. The time for that had passed them by long ago. "Just depends on what your bosses do from now on."

Tony allowed himself to smirk and was suddenly grateful his back was to the mirror. _They aren't my bosses,_ he thought with an insistence that had become annoying over the last few months, but here was not the place to say it. He met Steve's gaze and suddenly felt the weight of the last few hours crash down on him. "I heard you wanted to speak with me?"

Steve nodded, but said nothing for a while, as if inwardly debating with himself. Tony tried to lighten his own mood by imagining that mental conversation, but it didn't help. When Steve finally spoke, his words were clipped and rehearsed. "I've surrendered. You can have this Act of yours and we can move on, but I have conditions."

"What happens if we refuse them?" Tony asked, more out of curiosity than anything else. He knew he planned on hearing Steve's requests; he couldn't guarantee the men hidden behind him would.

"I act entitled and refuse to comply with anything you say is about the gist of it," Steve replied with a smirk of his own. An entitled Captain America might be worth seeing purely for a laugh, but now was not the time for that. "Which won't really help anyone. Might even spread more unrest and drag this out even further, and I don't think either of us want that."

He was right. Dragging this out would simply hurt more people and add to the reasons why the Act was necessary in the first place. Tony didn't particularly want to give his superiors the satisfaction of watching everyone continue to quarrel like schoolchildren, while they got to sit around acting entitled. "No, I don't think we do. So, these terms of yours. Hit me."

"You've already heard the first," Steve started, and Tony remembered his words from barely hours before. "My friends go free. They aren't hunted or punished as a result of my actions; you already have me, you don't need anyone else. Also, if this Act goes forward and you use it to identify people like us, fine. Maybe that'll work. But don't _ever_ use it to hurt someone or experiment on them. Don't you dare use this as a tool to abuse people."

There was a layer of ice in his tone that Tony could understand all too well; the Act had already been abused and Steve's best friend had suffered for it. They would have to ensure that that never happened again and that the Act's purpose remained pure, or was only used in situations where identifying rogue superhumans was a necessity. Many in power wouldn't like that proposal, but Tony knew he could not keep fighting on their behalf if they used his good intentions as a means to hurt people at will.

"That should be reasonable," he said simply, and hoped to god that it was. "The whole point of this was to protect people. It just got a bit... skewed along the way."

Steve gave a short laugh before looking away, his eyes turned downward as if trying to hide something. He was hurting, Tony realised. Coming to terms with his own imprisonment and the fact that he'd been forced to back down on his ideals. And yet, he knew Steve would be damned if he showed the world that pain.

An unpleasant thought came to his mind, and he lowered his voice as if doing so would stop unfriendly ears from hearing. "What about Barnes?"

The man had been slated to be a representative of the Act at work; proof that people with unnatural power could redeem themselves and fight for good. It would all have been a show of manipulation, but the public may have bought it.

The mention of his friend's name made Steve's expression harden, and pain seemed to make way for barely concealed anger. "You don't need him. If you want someone to prove the Act can force people to change, you have me. I'm its biggest opponent in the public's eyes; using me is all you need. Keep him out of it."

Tony nodded and ignored the fact that this suggestion would make several supporters of the Act balk. Barnes had been their prize – a pet to use as they pleased – and they wanted him back. They could all burn in hell before either Steve or Tony let that happen. "I'll do what I can to keep him safe."

It was a promise that had failed them before, but Steve seemed to be reassured by it all the same. He leaned back in his chair and seemed to grow smaller before Tony's eyes. "So, what happens now?"

"I don't know," Tony answered honestly, rubbing at his tired eyes in vain. He must look a mess – exhausted and bruised – but then, so did Steve. "There's been talk of a trial. You'll likely be detained 'til then. After that, god knows."

The uncertainty made him feel uncomfortable. He barely knew what he would do in the aftermath of all of this, let alone what would happen to anyone else. Likely he would return to his tower and hide himself away until he was needed for press, waiting for all the furore to die down. The thought wasn't as comforting as it should have been. The tower was too quiet these days, with only himself and Pepper living there permanently and Rhodey sometimes visiting. JARVIS's absence was sorely felt and even Pepper didn't act quite the same anymore. She had become as conflicted about this entire situation as he had, and Tony only hoped they would now finally have the chance to heal.

Steve hadn't reacted to Tony's news, too busy staring ahead at the mirror. If looks could kill, the adjacent room would soon be full of corpses, but the moment was gone and Steve suddenly looked tired again; hurt from their battles and scarred by his losses. The weight in Tony's chest seemed suffocating now and he didn't know how to make any of this better.

"I wish it hadn't come to this," he said finally, wishing he could say these words in privacy while being all too aware that that chance may never arise. Steve looked up at him in understanding.

"Me too," the super-soldier replied, with a sad smile underlying the sincerity in his tone. There was no point in acting like enemies or people who had been at odds with each other for longer than they should have been. In that moment they were friends, both tired and weary and sick of fighting for a cause neither really remembered anymore. "That's why we need to make things better from now on."

It was something that was such a 'Captain America' thing to say that, in another life, Tony would have joked about it to get a reaction. Now though, he couldn't think of anything he agreed with more.

* * *

He returned to the Avengers Tower (although perhaps Stark Tower suited it better now) the next day, having drowned his sorrows into the late hours of the night with vodka and whiskey. One of the many benefits to a private jet was that he could suffer his hangover in peace with only people he paid having to watch, and they valued their salary too much to say anything. Rhodey had complained, and loudly enough to make Tony's head feel like it was going to explode, but that was only to be expected and as they neared New York, the man had simply sat in sullen silence for the rest of the flight.

He'd been kicked out of Room 1503 the minute it became clear that he'd rather chat with Steve than discuss terms further, but he hoped at least that the man's requests had gotten across. They were reasonable enough and might even save people a lot of pain. If his superiors threw aside their pride for even a minute, perhaps they'd agree to the terms and the war could truly be over. However, Tony knew his future input would be kept at a minimum, and he planned to enjoy his time working and drinking in order to distract his mind from all the unpleasantries that plagued it currently.

The first thing he'd settled for doing upon arriving at his private quarters was collapsing on his bed and nodding off within seconds. The sleep he'd sacrificed over the past few months seemed desperate for its due, and it was only when he awoke – shaking and feeling ice slip through his veins – that he realised Rhodey must have removed his shoes and tucked the covers over him as he slept.

Waking wasn't the peaceful affair he'd have liked. His mind burned with images of faceless men dragging a struggling Barnes while Tony stood frozen, either unable or unwilling to help. The dream had been a constant recently, and sometimes even placed Steve or Natasha or any of his other old allies into the chair, but it was always Barnes's screams he woke to – guttural and agonised – until they faded as the man lost consciousness and slumped in the chair. Tony remembered being pushed back at that moment, fighting to reach Nelson and stop the machine, but in his dreams he never made a single move to help.

As usual, there was little time to dwell on that. Tony wiped the sweat from his face and willed his heart to calm before getting to his feet and stumbling through the corridors in yesterday's clothes. When he reached the lounge he found Rhodey there, who'd made himself at home with some pizza from the fridge and seemed to have been waiting for Tony to emerge from his room. "How's that hangover treating you?" he asked when he noticed his friend, and there was a hint of mirth that suggested he'd gotten over his annoyance on the jet.

"Super. My head no longer feels like there's a dent in it," Tony replied, before collapsing onto the couch himself. At the sudden movement, his head throbbed once more and he inwardly cursed his poor timing with words. It was only after he moved to rub his temples that he realised that Rhodey was watching the news on the large wide-screen. "Could you turn that off? I came here to escape reality."

"Yeah, give me a minute." Rhodey reached for the remote and switched channels until they landed on some old Disney movie Tony could vaguely remember liking as a child. He supposed it would be better than seeing his own face plastered on the screen.

They made it through five minutes in silence before curiosity seemed to get the better of Rhodes. "Seriously Tony – and you can tell me to piss off if you want, that's fair enough – but how are you feeling about all of this? Cause I'm getting the feeling no-one's bothered to ask you."

Tony honestly didn't know what to tell him. What was he supposed to feel? Was it supposed to be a matter of 'Yay, we won!' or was he meant to feel awful? Was he supposed to be truthful and tell Rhodey that he felt empty about the whole thing and just wanted it all to move behind him? He wasn't sure which of those would cause his friend the least concern.

"You know what, I'm fine," he said, settling for a half-truth. "I mean, not great or anything. My friend's in a fucking cell and I can't help him. But fine enough." It sounded true to his ears, although he wasn't sure even he believed it.

Rhodey didn't respond, and the rest of the movie slipped by in silence before being replaced by yet another Harry Potter marathon. At some point, Tony got up in order to change out of his old clothes and put on something more comfortable, but he returned to his spot soon enough. The lack of news reports was a comfort, albeit a fleeting one he imagined, and by the time Pepper arrived back from work, Tony and Rhodey were three movies into the ongoing marathon and had broken the ice by trying to figure out how science worked in the wizarding world.

Pepper looked surprised to see him back. Chances were she'd heard the news of everything that had happened in D.C. and expected that he'd be there dealing with the fallout. She seemed happy to see him though, which was the most comforting sight he'd seen in weeks, and he greeted her with a smile as she walked over to hug him.

"Hey," he laughed as her arms wrapped tightly around him, and she whispered a 'hey' back before looking up at him as if she couldn't quite believe he was really there. He could only imagine that the news had blown everything out of proportion and somehow made the fight outside the White House sound even worse than it had been. He would have to steer the subject away from that if he wanted anything close to a peaceful night. "I trust the company's running as smoothly as usual, even without me?"

"Smoother actually," she replied without a beat, giving him a smirk before settling onto the couch herself and kicking off her high-heels. "So, is it true what they're saying? It's really over?"

Tony flinched slightly as he sat down beside her, but he tried to appear reasonably happy anyway. "Seems like it. About time too. How about we celebrate with Chinese food and movies?"

At Pepper's raised eyebrow and quick glance over to Rhodey, Tony let go of the charade. "Look, I'm tired and there's still a lot I have to deal with, so whether or not it's over is up for debate. But for now, I'm home, so can we just have one night where everything's okay and we don't have to worry about the future?"

The brief moment of honesty seemed to be enough for all of them. All of the therapist-style talk could happen later and they could try to figure out what their current roles were at a later date. For now, Tony wanted to pretend that things were normal and have a laugh with his best friend and partner, and it wouldn't matter if the whole thing was a charade because he'd earned his night of peace.

He just dreaded the moment when that charade would have to fall away again.

* * *

The world was ending. It had to be; that was the only reason he could think of to justify what the news, Rhodes, Nelson and everyone else he seemed to know had told him. Nothing in the world could possibly matter anymore, because Steve Rogers was dying.

Today was meant to be the first day of the trial. Some idiot ( _Nelson, always fucking Nelson_ ) had arranged the entire thing to be public; a spectacle to behold, Captain America at his most humble. Tony hadn't had a say, hadn't even been scheduled to appear as a witness until the third day, but if he had he would certainly not have gone along with the suggestion that Steve be paraded outside on the courthouse steps, unarmed and unguarded. He'd been shot – gunshot wounds in both the neck and belly – and no matter how many frantic calls Tony made, the response was always the same. Steve was still in surgery, it was unclear whether he'd recover, sorry there's no more information we can give you...

He was stuck in the suite he'd occupied in the days leading up to his last ever meeting with Steve, while guards waited outside, unwilling to let him out until things calmed down. Despite the size of the place and the large windows that let in all the sunlight he could want, Tony felt like he was suffocating and his chest tightened to such an extent he thought for a moment that he was dying. It was only when he remembered experiencing anxiety attacks several years before that he was able to calm down, and even then, he'd hoped he'd gotten over those.

The situation called for it though. His friend was hurt and there was nothing he could do while his would-be killer roamed free. Reports had told him that Sam Wilson had been seen pursuing the shooter, but the two had vanished into the wind in the frantic aftermath.

In the absence of news, Tony had been left to his own devices and he was suddenly grateful that his fridge had been stocked with almost every alcoholic drink imaginable. His phone rang on occasion, but he'd gotten to the stage where he would ignore it unless it was the hospital, and even their updates were useless. He'd hoped Rhodey would call with news concerning the shooter so he could have someone to track down, but that was a dead-end so far and probably something he wouldn't be immediately privy to anyway.

So he was left with the regular old news that everyone else in the world must be watching avidly, as he cradled a glass of whiskey he'd intended to drink, but felt ill every time he made to bring it to his lips. The hours passed with so little information that the news anchors started to look bored, and eventually Tony switched the TV off before their faces could tempt him to throw the remote at the screen. The resulting silence made his ears ring and he wanted nothing more than to go to sleep and wake discovering this was all another dream.

When the outside skies had darkened and his sole source of light came from the specks of windows all around the city, he finally allowed himself to move away from the armchair and turn on some lights. He wandered over to the kitchen and rested his untouched whiskey on the counter before searching the cupboards for food he had no desire to eat. He lingered beside them for a few moments as if time would cause him to hunger, before giving up and closing them over. When he turned around, his whiskey was gone and was being drunk by a dark-haired woman who'd settled herself on his armchair.

Surprise barely had time to set in before she pulled dark locks away to reveal her natural red curls, and her sudden appearance instantly made more sense. There was no need to ask how she'd gotten in; Natasha was garbed in the dress of a typical hotel maid and even bore a name-tag with the building's logo. Her face was guarded, distrusting, but he'd expected nothing else and he moved around the counter to settle himself onto another chair and face her.

"I was looking forward to enjoying that," he lied, motioning to the whiskey in her hand. In response, she simply raised an eyebrow before downing the glass in one go.

"Then get another glass," she said flippantly, settling her empty glass on the coffee table in front of her. When Tony made no move to do so, she sat up and fixed him with a steely glare. "Whose clever idea was it to have Steve out in public?"

Tony had suspected that was her reason for being here and, remembering the culprit, he had no qualms about giving a name. "John Nelson. He's the asshole who took Steve in and tried to get you all killed." He felt rage thrum underneath his skin at the mere mention of the man. He'd been a classic example of someone who had enjoyed his power immensely even as everything had fallen apart, and this was the final nail in the coffin. "How is Steve? Have you heard any more than I have?"

Natasha shook her head. "Probably not. Last I heard he was still in surgery, but no-one seemed willing to guess whether he'd pull through or not." Her composure had cracked slightly as she spoke. She'd been close to Steve, to the point of being good friends with the man. _She still is_ , Tony reminded himself urgently. It was not the time for past-tense, not yet. Natasha went on: "Sam tried to catch his shooter but he had too big a head-start. We did get a glimpse of him though; we're dealing with Rumlow again."

Something like ice seemed to settle around Tony's heart. All those months ago it had been Rumlow's actions that had been the immediate catalyst to this mess, and in all the ensuing chaos he had never once considered that the man hadn't yet been caught. They'd practically gift-wrapped the opportunity to harm Steve today, and Tony doubted he could forgive himself for that oversight.

Natasha seemed to be considering something herself as her forehead was creased in thought, her eyes trained on the empty glass as if she'd happily refill it with her mind. "Nelson's the one who lured us out of our hideout in the first place. He called us..." She looked up at Tony, barely concealing her rage. "How did he get a phone number that only Fury could know?"

Tony thought he knew the answer, although nobody had thought to trust him with the actual reason.

"A few weeks back, one of Fury's old haunts was uncovered. The man himself is fine, wasn't a trace of him, but they sent in a team who spent weeks searching every corner of the place. And I mean that – there was nothing left of it when they were done." He thought he saw Natasha shift uncomfortably at the notion that Fury's seemingly unbreakable security was anything but, and he couldn't particularly blame her. It was difficult at times to remember that Nick Fury was as human as the rest of them; more so after the initial fall of SHIELD. "That must be how they got it."

"So we weren't betrayed?" If Tony didn't know any better, he may have mistaken her tone for hopeful, but her face was as guarded as ever.

"No. Not purposefully anyway," he replied. There had been many betrayals in the war but that hadn't been one of them.

Natasha released a breath she hadn't seemed to realise she'd been holding, before taking her glass over to the kitchen and pouring out a refill. Tony didn't even need to ask before she got out a clean glass and poured one for him too, passing it back to him as she made her way back to her seat.

The whiskey burned his throat as he drank but it eased the numbness of everything else. Opposite him, Natasha seemed to be pondering something.

"I assume I can trust you?" she asked finally, meeting his gaze from across the table. He noticed she hadn't touched her own drink. "You won't tell anyone I was here, or even anywhere near D.C.?"

"Why?" he asked, feeling more uncomfortable about the question than he probably should. "Planning something stupid?"

"Perhaps," she replied with a smirk, before finally taking a sip of her drink. That seemed to suffice however, for she left it on the table and pushed it away from her. "But I want to be careful about it."

Tony laughed, and the sound felt so alien at this moment that he could almost forget that the world was falling apart at the seams. He downed the rest of his drink, almost choking at its burn, before he answered her. "You can trust me."

That seemed to be enough. Natasha got to her feet, carefully replaced the wig back on her head, and made her way over to Tony, who stood up to see her out. She stopped in front of him, gave him a small smile, and held out her hand.

"I would say we've had some good times, but...well," she trailed off as Tony shook her hand once, sensing a finality that made him wish she would stay. He'd missed her, he'd missed everyone, and their group was splintering once again while there was nothing he could do to stop it.

But he didn't show any of that; made no move to force her to stay. Instead he simply returned the smile and let go of her hand. "I'll miss you too, Nat."

With that, it was done. There were no hugs, no tears, not even a spoken farewell. Natasha straightened out her outfit, walked past him and all there was left to hear was the slamming of the door followed by damning silence.

* * *

He woke to a call informing him that John Nelson had been found in his apartment with his throat slashed open. Instead of shedding a tear for the man, Tony simply took a moment to admire the fact that Natasha had been able to act so quickly.

The moment vanished when another call informed him that Steve had died in hospital overnight, and the phone quickly met its fate against a wall.

* * *

People wanted him to speak. No matter where he went, everyone wanted words and he could think of none to give them. The public wanted to know how he felt now his 'enemy' was gone (he wondered how people could honestly see the situation as that black-and-white until he remembered that tabloids existed), Rhodey constantly wanted to know how he was feeling, Pepper simply wanted to know if he was okay. He could respond to none of them, not truthfully, and he'd grown tired of building a facade for himself.

People had wanted the same after his parents had died; had wanted to know how the angsty teenage Tony Stark would deal with something so final, and he'd denied them the privilege of seeing inside his soul even then.

Now he had no such choice. He had been chosen to speak at the funeral, which he imagined Steve would have wanted to be private but was quickly becoming a public affair. What made it worse was that Steve's closest friends couldn't even be there. It was too dangerous, no matter how often he was told the fighting was done, but Tony would be present and he hoped that mattered.

The suit he wore was too hot for a stifling summer's day, but it was fittingly smart and all-black besides. He would fit right in, perhaps to such an extent that people would stop looking at him as if he were something alien to dissect until they had every piece of his soul they could bare. Pepper had picked out the outfit for him, saving him the burden of doing so, and he was eternally grateful to her for that even though any attempt to say as much had ended with his words getting caught in his throat. He would tell her later, when everything quietened down and he could think. For now, he had a long day to prepare for.

A knock on the door signalled Rhodey's arrival. Tony was almost surprised to see that he had not been forced to wear the War Machine armour in order to stand guard, and instead appeared rather dapper himself in his own black suit. He didn't say anything to Tony, just gave him an understanding nod and waited while he memorised his words for the hundredth time. Tony had never been one to stick to a script, and he probably wouldn't stick to this one, but it felt nice to be prepared.

He wasn't aware that Rhodey had moved next to him until he felt a firm, grounding hand on his shoulder and he looked up into his best friend's eyes. Eyes that had seen enough horrors to last a lifetime even without Tony's help, and ones that he trusted completely.

"You okay, Tony?" the man said, looking down at the paper clenched in his fist. The unspoken implication was obvious; _you don't have to do this, someone else could do it easily, hell even I could do it..._ but Tony knew it would have to be him. He owed Steve that much.

"Not really," he found himself replying honestly without meaning to, but admitting it made him feel a little lighter than he had moments before. He still wasn't prepared for so many eyes to be plastered on him, nor the world's scrutiny over his every word and action, but they didn't matter. Pepper mattered, Rhodey mattered. Natasha and Sam and Wanda and everyone else he'd ever let down mattered. He could live with the rest of the world's scorn.

He had already repaid Sam Wilson in the only way he could. Somehow, the iconic shield had found its way into his possession in the immediate aftermath of the war, but Tony had known it was not his to take. Instead he'd passed it along to Clint, who'd promised to pass it along to Natasha, who would then make sure it found its way to Sam. Tony trusted no-one better to keep it safe.

He'd upset a good few government officials with his actions, but he couldn't care less about what they wanted anymore.

A look at his watch told him it was almost time to go. Without a second thought, he stuffed the paper into his pocket and turned to Rhodey with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Well then. Let's just get this over with, shall we?"

Rhodey nodded, and kept close by his side as they made their way out of the hotel room and down to the street where a car would be waiting. Tony was grateful for his friend's grounding presence, but he could not afford to let his mind wander from what he would have to say.

All he could dwell on were words. On how he would have to tell the world that he'd lost a friend and that nothing – not the war, not the Act, not even Ultron – had been worth that.


	5. Bucky - Epilogue

**A/N - So this is the final chapter/epilogue. Thank you to everyone who read this, and to those who left favourites/follows/comments :) Hopefully you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it.**

* * *

For the first time he could remember, Bucky was feeling the wind brush against his face.

The base had been safe and controlled and that had suited him, especially in the early days, but there was something about finally seeing the outside world that made his breath catch in his throat and his existence feel real. The wind brushed strands of his hair into his face and made the grasses of the fields before him sway in unison, while the sun beat down on him from above. In the distance, the fields gave way to jutting hills and quiet cottages dotted the landscape, seemingly frozen as if in a painting. Behind him lay a winding road, where Sam had parked the SUV after countless hours of driving, but he had no wish to return there just yet. For now he wanted to feel a part of the world and not like some thing that had to be kept within four walls.

A bird flew towards him and landed not far from where he stood, pecking at the ground before looking up at him and freezing. Bucky remained equally still while the creature studied him, and it was only when Sam closed the car door behind them that it flew away, cawing.

Bucky was suddenly struck by the fact that he could not remember an instance where he had seen a bird before, and yet he'd known its name on instinct. He would have to write that down later; another little reminder that he was a person, that he knew things beyond his fragmented existence. That one day he may remember more and be complete. Sam would approve of that; he'd provided Bucky with the new journal himself. There had been another book once, one that had burned, but Sam had packed that away just before they'd left with an unreadable expression on his face.

That had been at the base though, and that place was far behind them. What had once been a full environment had suddenly dwindled to just three people – himself, Sam and Wanda; two people he trusted, even though he knew one other was missing. That other had never returned - although his name had been said in various tones over the last few weeks - but Bucky had brought with him the photographs that proved the man had been real. _Steve,_ he reminded himself, knowing he must not forget. _His name is Steve._

Just as his own name was James Buchanan Barnes. He was ninety-eight years old and had grown up in Brooklyn. He had been the Winter Solider for a time, but those days were long gone and he did not have to fear them anymore. Steve had been his friend; had never stopped being his friend no matter how many times they seemed to lose each other.

Those were the facts Bucky knew he had to remember. The small building blocks of his life that were slowly leading to more memories being uncovered. It was a slow process, and a difficult one on both his and Wanda's parts, but he knew it was better than having his mind reduced to nothing.

He heard footsteps approaching him and he tensed, ready to fight if need be. Logic told him he was safe, but he had instincts ingrained in him so deeply he could not truly lose them. He only relaxed when the familiar figure of Sam appeared at his side and placed a light touch on his right arm, bringing him back to earth and keeping him there. Bucky turned to look at him properly but made no attempt to remove Sam's grip; it was a comforting reminder that he was real and human, and it could not hurt him.

"How are you doing, buddy?" Sam asked with a small, reassuring smile. He was attempting humour, a nickname, although Bucky wasn't sure he liked it. "You feeling alright?"

Bucky thought for a moment. Physically he was well, mentally... well, that had always been difficult to judge. He missed Steve, while also feeling like his absence was something more meaningful than he could comprehend right now. That implied he would hurt later, when dreams brought back fragments of his old life, and he couldn't say he was anticipating that moment.

However, this place was peaceful and he was with people he trusted. He knew that Wanda was safely asleep in the back of the SUV and Sam was right in front of him, and in their care he was safe. They were his protectors, not his handlers. At first he had struggled to distinguish between the two, until he noticed that Sam and Steve and Wanda had only ever tried to comfort him and make him better, while his old handlers had wished him harm. Even though he remembered little of them, the memories of pain had lingered.

He was taking too long to answer; Sam was starting to look worried. "I'm a six, I think," he said finally, remembering the scoring system Sam had taught him. Assigning figures to how he felt suited him much better than fashioning his feelings into words. Six wasn't great, but it wasn't bad either, and Sam's worry seemed to fade.

"That's okay," he said, clapping Bucky on the shoulder in a manner he'd quickly learned was friendly. "A six is good. You up for heading back to the car?"

Bucky nodded, before following Sam as he strode over to the parked SUV. He noticed the man still had a slight limp, but if he was in pain he didn't let Bucky see.

They were parked in a small picnic area overlooking the view, in order for Sam to take a break from driving and get something to eat. All of their possessions seemed to be cleared away, ready to head off, except for one thing that rested on a small wooden table near the car. Bucky knew it from the colours – the red and blue shining in the sun – and he also knew that everytime Sam looked at it, he seemed sad. Bucky wondered if he was planning to leave it here, but that did not seem to be the case as Sam lifted it in his hands, grimacing as if it were heavy.

The air suddenly became very still, and Bucky froze where he stood as Sam looked down at the shield in his hands. Something in his mind, that Bucky could not trace, thought it suited the man. Sam was kind and good and knew how to take care of himself and others; he was worthy of the shield and all that came with it, although the idea seemed to hurt.

Sam must have been pondering these very things himself, although perhaps in a more self-deprecating manner, and he looked up at Bucky as if the image of the weapon in his hands had burned him. "It feels wrong, y'know," he said quietly, even though Bucky didn't know, couldn't possibly know. "This shouldn't be mine. I don't... it was always his. I shouldn't be the one to take it."

Bucky didn't know what to say. He knew he should comfort the man, but he did not know how to do that yet. The man he had been seventy years ago might have known how, but that man had been young and naïve and, until the war had torn him apart, his troubles had never matched the one that Bucky faced now. Sam was technically right; the shield belonged to Steve and always had done, but Steve was not here.

"You should," Bucky started, relying on instinct and hoping it was what Sam needed to hear. "It should be yours."

He couldn't read Sam's expression, but it wasn't long before the man smiled again. Bucky knew those well enough. "It's a hell of a burden," he said, and although there was a hint of sadness in his voice, the small smile remained. "But then again, someone has to take it I guess."

Sam clutched the shield to his chest, before making his way back to the car and placing it in the back-seat. Bucky followed and saw that Wanda had moved to sit on the front passenger seat, and was passing the time by reading a book. She looked up and smiled as she saw Bucky approach, but neither he nor Sam made a move to get in and drive away. Sam had halted, his hand steady on the door, and he turned to face Bucky once more with the calmness he wore so well.

"I'm not gonna lie, Bucky, what I'm planning to do is dangerous. We're hunting down Rumlow after all; you knew him once." The name rung a faint bell and Bucky felt a chill he had learned to associate with his days as the Soldier. "I won't force you into this. Steve wouldn't have wanted me to. If you would rather go some-place safe, I know some people who can protect you and help you build a normal life. But if you're okay with staying with us, I won't stop you."

Bucky needed to think. He told Sam as much, and the man gave him a nod before saying, "Take all the time you need." He climbed into the car but gave no indication that he was intending to drive away, so Bucky turned and wandered back to the spot where he had stood and observed the world.

A normal life was an option. A quiet life, maybe even a long one. It felt like something he would have wanted once. When he was a young man envisioning his future; a steady job, a house in the country, someone who loved him, kids, grand-kids. That ideal existence that adults always raved about and had probably seemed attractive at the time. Even now, looking out onto quiet fields and picture-perfect cottages, he could almost envision it for himself. He would have to recover first, but after that he could move on and settle down.

It was a nice idea, but one he knew he would never indulge in. Something vital was missing, something that ensured he would never be happy with that life. At least taking the dangerous route meant Sam and Wanda were still a part of his life.

The sun was sinking now, resting just above the hilltops and casting shadows on the fields. Bucky cast one final look at what lay before him, before turning and walking back to Sam.


End file.
